


The Rules of Engagement

by aerye



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Pining, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Who what?" Damned if he was gonna let Doyle keep throwing this in his face. He'd done what Doyle asked, what he'd made Bodie promise. He'd toed the line Doyle had drawn. Hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything, hadn't touched him so much as to even pass a cup of tea, even though it killed him, even if every day he felt like these feelings inside him would choke him. "Say it, Doyle. I'm the one who—?"</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Doyle whirled around. "Who changed the rules in the middle of the fucking game, that's what! One minute I can't keep track of all the birds you're stringing along and the next minute you're telling me—" He faltered. "You're telling me—"</em>
</p>
<p>Like a fool, Bodie revealed his feelings to Doyle, and now their friendship is in tatters and their partnership is cracking under the strain of Doyle's rejection. Given a dangerous undercover assignment, Bodie and Doyle must deal with danger, love, fear--and a deadly IRA leader who just happens to be Bodie's ex-lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules of Engagement

WHAT'S YOUR VERDICT, DOCTOR?"

     The squad doctor attending Bodie turned away to answer Cowley's question and Bodie shifted on the table, lifting a hand to the ache in his head. Cowley was glaring at him—nothing unusual about that, was there—his arms folded across his chest. Doyle was across the room, leaning against the wall with arms and ankles crossed, keeping a safe distance from Cowley's disapproval. And a safe distance from him, no doubt. Bodie looked over at him; Doyle met his eyes but his face was as blank as a clean page. The way it'd been since—

     "Well, there's no concussion as far as I can discern," the doctor said, draping his stethoscope around his neck. "Of course" —this directly to Bodie—"if there's any nausea, dizziness — "

     " — blurred vision, lapses in memory, or confusion—" The boredom in his voice was manufactured. He hurt all over, but it was second nature to shrug off anything less than losing an arm. And he'd be damned if he'd let Doyle know how raw he felt.

     "Bodie." Cowley's voice carried the usual reprimand, and Bodie fell silent as Cowley favoured him with a stern glance. "Continue, Doctor."

     "Yes, well—" The doctor looked a bit put out at not being taken more seriously. Bodie didn't spare him much sympathy. Ought to be used to it, working with this lot. "Yes, well, as I was saying, your man here doesn't appear to have concussion. Nothing serious at all. Just a couple of scrapes and a rather large bump on his head. However, should he notice any symptoms—"

     "I'm fine," Bodie said, voice clipped. He was anxious to be out of here and back in his flat, making inroads into a bottle. For appearance' sake, he dredged up a bit of levity. "Fit as a fiddle, sir. Just a bit of a headache."

     The doctor ignored him. "If he notices anything, bring him back immediately and we'll conduct more tests. In the meantime, he can go home. Anadin, nothing stronger mind you, for pain. Someone should stay with him tonight, just to be safe."

     Cowley and the doctor turned to Doyle. Doyle shifted uneasily, his eyes flickering over to Bodie and away again. "He can come home with me," he said, after the uncomfortable silence lengthened, when Cowley's brow knit with impatience and disapproval.

     Bodie shook his head. He was tired and hurt, off his game. Sick with seesawing emotions. He just wanted to go home and lick his wounds, not spend a long night being lanced by Doyle's silent censure. "Look, sir, I really don't think that's necessary," he objected.

     Cowley turned away from Doyle and overrode him brusquely. "You'll follow the doctor's orders, Bodie, or answer-to me."

     He schooled his face as the doctor applied astringent to the painful lacerations on his arms. It burned. The skin was scraped raw from his contact with the messy streets of London. He'd hit the ground hard, and they'd come up scabbed and bruised by the next day. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his voice cool and even. "Yes, sir."

     "And I want to see your report on this entire affair first thing in the morning," Cowley added, shaking his head and giving Bodie a baleful eye. "I don't have to tell you that this is a fine state of affairs you've left us with. Two men dead, blood all over the streets, and no one left alive to tell us what it was all about."

     "We did stop those guns from getting to wherever they were headed, sir." Despite his best efforts, Bodie's temper was starting to rise. "That's a whole lot of firepower that won't make it to the streets."

     "Aye, but who's to say whoever it is won't just go out and find himself another supplier. And what about the C4—what kind of mischief was that headed for, eh? Information, Bodie, what we needed was information, and thanks to you we haven't got it. What's the matter with you anyway?" Cowley demanded. "I count on you to perform better than this. You could have been a rank amateur, for all the good you did us today."

     "Sir—"

     Cowley cut him off, turning on Doyle. "And what about you, four-five? Where were you? Since when do you leave your partner to take down a truck load of terrorists without so much as a gun defending his back?"

     Doyle's face hardened. "Sir, if Bodie had bothered to stop and share what he had in mind before he went after that truck—"

     "What, are we playing games like the Americans now? Conferences in the middle of the field, after every play? How many times have I told you—you're a team, man! You need to know your partner, what he's thinking, what he's feeling, what his next move's going to be."

     "To be fair, sir—it did all get a bit chaotic," Bodie protested.

     "Chaotic? If the two of you can't handle a bit of chaos then perhaps you need to find yourselves another job. Chaos is our bread and butter, gentlemen. It's what separates us from the rest of the mob. But charging in there the way you did, then blasting your way out like some cowboy—"

     "I suppose I could've let 'em shoot me," Bodie said quietly, looking at Doyle. "Better all around." There was some bitter satisfaction in seeing Doyle's mouth tighten.

     "You should have left the heroics at home, Bodie! Used your head instead of all that muscle you two are so fond of tossing about." Cowley turned to Doyle. "Ah, take him home, Doyle. Take him home and make sure he gets some sleep, because I want both of you back first thing in the morning and we'll start again from the very beginning."

     "First thing—? Yes, sir." Bodie bit back his protest at the look on Cowley's face.

     "Seven a.m. sharp. My office. Doctor." Cowley nodded at the attending and picked up his hat and coat.

     Doyle straightened and unfolded his arms as Cowley passed. "Sir."

     "Well, that's a fine thank you for risking my life for Queen and country," said Bodie, as soon as Cowley's footsteps had died away.

     "Ice will help with the pain," the doctor said, clearly unimpressed, "and keep the swelling down." He wrote some notes on the hospital chart. "Keep those arms clean and use a good antiseptic on them for the next day or so, just to be safe." The doctor signed his name and tore off a copy of the instructions, passing it to Bodie before he left.

     "Needs a bit of a refresher course in bedside manner, don't you think?" Bodie complained as he levered himself off the table. He picked up his shirt and looked at Doyle, who'd gone back to leaning silently in the doorway. "I suppose you've got something to say as well?"

     "You almost started a riot in the middle of Trafalgar Square at tea time, Bodie. It's not considered good form to frighten the tourists." Doyle's voice was cool, detached. Bodie'd heard that tone before—it was the one Doyle used to put people off, to keep them at a safe distance, to freeze them out. He hadn't used it on Bodie in a long time, not since early days.

     "Yeah, well, it wouldn't have happened if—" Bodie closed his teeth on the words, his own cool fractured and drowning in emotion. He took a deep breath. Too dangerous to get into that now. Ever. Best if they just kept up a mask of civility until they found their way through this thing. Until they got back to normal.

     "If what?" Pushing now, challenging. He stuffed down his anger. Wouldn't do any good to fight about it. "We've done better is all. Just—we were off our game today."

     "We were off our game?" Doyle demanded, straightening. "Don't know as I got consulted on any of what went down today. Seems you're playing a new game in a whole lot of ways."

     Christ. He set his jaw and focused his attention on doing up his shirt. It was ruined—half the buttons gone and the fabric shredded.

     "Fine." Doyle turned away and pulled his keys from his pocket. "I'll get the car."

     "Doyle." Bodie called him back, cursing himself. He couldn't seem to help it. He hated this tension, this anger between them. He'd give anything to go back, to before. Doyle turned to face him.

     "How long's it gonna take?" Bodie asked quietly.

     "How long's what gonna take?"

     "Until you stop holding it against me."

     "Stop holding what against you, Bodie?" Cool. Blank. Expressionless.

     Bodie looked away. "Never mind."

     "Right. I'll get the car," Doyle repeated, walking out. Bodie listened until he couldn't hear the sound of his boots any more, and then he finished getting dressed.

     Ten minutes later they were in the car, heading out to Doyle's flat in Lisson Grove. Neither of them had broken the silence since the hospital, and it was beginning to wear a bit thin. Bodie shifted in his seat, staring out the window.

     "That hurting?"

     He realised he'd been fingering the bump on his forehead. "Nah. Not really," he lied, lifting his head. He took his hand away and glanced at Doyle. "Nothing a stiff drink won't cure."

     "Not a chance, Bodie. Not with that head." If Doyle had been watching him, he wasn't any more. Not surprising. Doyle found all sorts of way not to look at him these days.

     "Nothing wrong with me head," Bodie protested. Rapped his knuckles against the undamaged temple. "Hard as a rock."

     "Now there's the truth." Doyle glanced over at him. "Going to be a hell of a bruise," he remarked.

     Bodie held up his scraped forearms. "Match the rest of me. Worried about my good looks, Raymond?" It came out sharper than he intended.

     Doyle looked away again. "Just a tragedy to think you may wind up uglier than you already are" he said, his voice freezing over again.

 

When they reached Doyle's flat Doyle waved him into the lounge while he went on into the kitchen. Bodie dropped his jacket and his gun onto a chair and went to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a glass of whisky. He could hear the sounds of Doyle making tea, filling the kettle and taking out mugs.

     "Bodie!"

     Doyle was in the doorway, frowning at the drink in his hand and shaking his head.

     "Ah, Doyle—you wouldn't deprive a wounded man of a decent drink, would you?" Getting drunk and falling asleep was the best way he could think of to get through the night. Keep him and Doyle from having to find any way of being civil to each other.

     Doyle just shook his head again and came closer, his eyes darkening. "You take chances. You always take chances."

     "Doesn't seem to get me anywhere."

     "Bodie—" There was warning in Doyle's voice.

     "Right. Never mind." Bodie swallowed another mouthful of whisky. It felt good going down, a nice, warm burn. Enough of this and nothing would hurt any more. Not his head, not his arms, not even his heart. He reached for the bottle again. "Fancy a curry? We could get takeaway from that place down the street."

     Doyle put out a hand. "C'mon, Bodie, give me the bottle. The doctor said—"

     "The doctor wouldn't know his arse from his elbow if he didn't have a book to tell him. Been hurt worse. We've both been hurt worse. I'm fine." Doyle was still holding out his hand. "I'm fine, Doyle, really. Let's just go get the goddamn food so we can eat and call it a night. Don't want to be late in the morning for _Mister_ Cowley."

     "Bodie, give me the bottle." Doyle's voice had gone quietly angry.

     "Don't push it," Bodie warned him. "I want a drink. I'm going to have a drink." He poured another glass.

     Doyle grabbed for the bottle. Bodie swore and held on, and there was a brief tug of war. He lost his grip, and whisky spilled out over Bodies hand and his trousers.

     He backed away, glaring at Doyle. "Now look what you've—" He bit off the words, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to fight with Doyle tonight. He was too tired to think clearly and too hurt to be careful with his words, and he didn't want to do any more damage to their partnership, given the way it seemed to be slipping through his fingers. "Look, I appreciate the concern but I'll have a goddamned drink if I want one. If I can't have it here, I'll have it at my own flat."

     "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you." Doyle's mouth was a thin, hard line. "The least you can do is follow the doctor's orders. For your own good."

     "So all of a sudden you're interested in my health now, are you?" Bodie sneered. "Refreshing change that, after getting the back of your head for weeks. 'We can still be. partners, Bodie.' That's what you said. "That doesn't have to change.' Right. Well, if today was your idea of partners then I'd be just as well off without one."

     Doyle's eyes narrowed. "And what's that supposed to mean? What happened today wasn't my fault, Bodie. I'm not the one who went after a truck full of arms and terrorists without so much as a warning to his partner." Doyle's voice was low and cutting. "Besides, this isn't about what happened today, is it? The problem here isn't my fault and you know it. Admit it. I'm not the one who — " He seemed to check himself. "Ah, hell. Sod it." Doyle waved his arm dismissively and turned away again.

     "Who what?" Damned if he was gonna let Doyle keep throwing this in his face. He'd done what Doyle asked, what he'd made Bodie promise. He'd toed the line Doyle had drawn. Hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything, hadn't touched him so much as to even pass a cup of tea, even though it killed him, even if every day he felt like these feelings inside him would choke him. "Say it, Doyle. I'm the one who—?"

     Doyle whirled around. "Who changed the rules in the middle of the fucking game, that's what! One minute I can't keep track of all the birds you're stringing along and the next minute you're telling me—" He faltered. "You're telling me—"

     Bodie's laugh was grim. "You can't even say it, can you? What are you afraid of?" He took a step closer. "That it's contagious? Afraid you might catch something if you keep hanging about with me?"

     "Shut up, Bodie." Doyle tensed but stood his ground.

     "Right. All rny fault, is it?"

     "I didn't say—"

     "No, no, you're right, Doyle." The anger felt good after weeks of stuffing it down, hot and bright and heady. "Not your fault. You're not interested, mate. Made that all perfectly clear, you did. 'Not a fucking pervert,' you said. I did get that right, didn't I? Ray Doyle's not a _fucking queer_."

     And it felt good to throw the words back at him. God knew it'd almost broken him, hearing them. Seeing the look of fear and dismay—disgust?—twisting Doyle's face. The stupid, stunned disbelief and the frantic way Doyle'd backed away from him, as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

     It'd been an afternoon just like any other, just like all of the other afternoons they'd spent together over the years. Doyle had turned to him, smiling, making some joke, and Bodie would have had to be dead to stop himself from leaning forward, from kissing that laughing mouth. He'd expected Doyle to smile, to kiss him back, maybe to laugh at him for taking so long to make a move. Because surely this was where they'd been headed, what with the looks, the flirting, the way they touched each other. But Doyle hadn't smiled, hadn't laughed—he'd recoiled from Bodie, backing up until there was no place to go, and hurled those filthy words at him. Bodie tried to salvage something, tried to explain, but it'd all gone wrong in that moment, everything had got fucked up, and from one minute to the next everything changed. He'd cobbled together what was left of his dignity and fled.

     They'd put a patch on it, of course. There was the job to think about, the partnership they'd worked so hard to build, the reputation they had as a team. Things that neither of them wanted to sacrifice to the mess he'd made of things. Of course, there were rules now, stated and unstated. Doyle's rules. Things Bodie was allowed, things he wasn't. They didn't talk about it.

     That was three weeks ago. And in the intervening days the chasm that'd opened up between them had only got deeper and wider, empty with all the things Bodie could no longer have—the feelings, the flirting, the casual touches. All the things Doyle didn't want from him, and never would.

     "Look, I didn't mean — " Doyle pushed a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not making any judgements here. What you get up to after hours isn't any of my business."

     "What I 'get up to'?" Bodie laughed. It sounded ugly, even to him. "How very generous. Y'know, you're right-it's after hours and what I 'get up to' is none of your affair." He turned away and grabbed his gun and coat. "I'll see you in the morning" he said, and started out of the lounge.

     He'd almost reached the door when he felt Doyle's hand on his shoulder, grip solid as iron. "You're not leaving here, Bodie. I'll knock you down if I've got to but you're not leaving."

     "Then I guess you're gonna have to knock me down," he said, moving almost before the words were completely out of his mouth. He twisted under Doyle's hand, swinging about and grabbing his forearm, turning and bending his arm back behind him. Doyle winced but he didn't give up, struggling against his hold. They fought for several seconds before Bodie slammed him into the wall, leaning an elbow into his back. He could smell the sweat rising up off Doyle, and the anger.

     "You bastard." Doyle forced the words out through gritted teeth. "All right, all right. Let me go."

     Bodie stepped back, releasing him, and Doyle turned, rubbing absently at his wrist and staring at Bodie through narrowed eyes. Bodie felt his gut churn; Doyle looked frustrated and raw, shirt half rugged out of his jeans and his skin gleaming with the exertion. He looked fierce and wild, and Bodie resented the hold Doyle still had on him, despite the anger, despite the ugly words. The need that still ate at him, turning him sick with want. He wanted to lean forward, wrap his hands around Doyle's prick, and bring him to his knees.

     He took a deep breath and turned away. "I'll see you in the morning."

     "And I said you weren't leaving—" and he heard the words too late to react. Doyle's hand was on his shoulder again, pulling him around. He raised his fists in time to deflect the first punch, aimed at his jaw, but not the second, which hit him in the gut, winding him. He went down to one knee, gasping for air, the edges of his vision darkening.

     Doyle backed off, his fists clenched at his sides as he stared down at him, and as Bodie's vision cleared the pain was replaced by rage, pent up rage that'd soured in his belly for days. He suddenly wanted to hurt, the way he'd been hurt. He roared as he charged up from his place on the ground, his fist landing solidly on Doyle's ribs, and he relished the gasp of pain he heard. He moved in for another punch, but Doyle recovered too fast, wrapping his arms around Bodie's chest and pinning his hands to his sides. They wrestled again, slamming into walls, stumbling and almost falling more than once before Bodie shook him off, backed up a step, and threw a punch that hit Doyle squarely in the eye. Doyle stumbled back, hunching over as he pressed a palm against his injured face.

     "I'm leaving," he rasped, winded. He almost made it to the door for a third time when he was hit again, this time with a fist to his kidney. He gasped and staggered to his knees, arms wrapped around his gut, wincing as the pain shot up his spine.

     "You're staying." Doyle's voice came from someplace above and behind him.

     He shook his head to clear it, tried to twist it in the direction of the voice. Out. He wanted out. Everything had been reduced to that single desire: the need to get away, away from Doyle, and go someplace he could lick his wounds from the day. He felt like an animal, ready to chew off its own leg to get out of the trap. He set his teeth and laboured to pull himself up.

     "Goddamn it, just stay down, Bodie. Don't make me hurt you more than you already are, you stubborn son of a bitch."

     Fuck that. Fuck Doyle. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, getting another leg under him. "I—want a drink—I'll have a goddamned—drink."

     "Bodie—" Doyle was standing over him, breathing heavily, fists clenched. His eye was already swelling; it would be blackened and bruised by morning. He'd cut his lip, too—there were traces of blood at the corner of his mouth.

     Bodie made himself look away. "Fuck you." He ignored him, struggling to his feet.

     "Jesus—" Doyle tried to put a hand on his arm again and Bodie lifted his chin, tightening his fists. Round one had gone to Doyle, but he'd be damned if he was giving up.

     Doyle looked at his face, his fists, and shook his head. He turned away, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. "Fine. You know the way out," he said.

     Bodie made it all the way to the door of the flat before he realized his gun and jacket were still inside. He'd have hell to pay if Cowley found out he'd left the gun behind. He hesitated for several seconds, wondering whether to go back and challenge Doyle again or take the consequences from Cowley in the morning. He turned back to the lounge uncertainly.

     "God damn you to hell, Bodie." The air was split by the sound of a glass shattering against the wall and Doyle's voice, low and broken. Bodie froze, listening, but there wasn't another sound. Finally Bodie turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

 

"ClARAN MACDIARMADA."

     The projector flashed and Bodie stifled the instinct to groan as the sudden light sliced into his hangover. After he'd fled Doyle's flat he'd gone through the better part of a bottle before giving in to sleep, and he'd woken up on his settee, still wearing his shredded and bloody clothes from the day before. He'd had barely enough time to shower and shave and arrive at Cowley's office, a bit worse for the wear, by the required seven o'clock.

     Doyle was already there, looking forbidding and stone-faced. His eye had come up swollen and dark, just as Bodie'd known it would, and his lip was raw. At Bodie's arrival he'd looked up from his chair in front of Cowley's desk and nodded a greeting in his general direction without ever meeting his eyes, looking through him without seeing him, passing him his jacket, holster, and gun without a word. Even now, sitting side by side at the briefing table, Doyle could've been on the other side of the planet for all there was any kind of warmth between them. Frustrated, Bodie followed the bastard's lead, folding his arms across his chest and staring straight ahead at the image being flashed on the screen.

     Bodie recognised MacDiarmada from his tour with the Paras— his face was plastered on the walls of every SAS office in Belfast. He was an older man, early fifties by Bodie's guess, with thinning white hair and hawkish eyebrows. It was obvious that the photo they were looking at had been taken from long range, while the subject was in motion— it was blurry as hell.

     "MacDiarmada's the mastermind behind at least four bombings in Ulster," Cowley said. "Two in Belfast, and another three here in London." He pressed the button on the projector remote three times in quick succession, and three more equally blurry photographs were displayed. "The man's revered. He can trace his lineage back to Sean MacDiarmada and the 1916 Rebellion— he's an icon, fanatical and deadly." The projector whirled twice again. "He went underground ten years ago after being wounded in an attempted raid, but his influence is still powerful behind the scenes. Intelligence says his health is deteriorating. According to MI5 he's grooming someone else to take the reins."

     "Sir, what's this have to do with what happened yesterday?" Doyle asked.

     "He's here," Cowley said grimly. "MacDiarmada entered the country last week at Dover, with three other men. You ran into two of them yesterday."

      The projector flashed again. More images, only a tad less blurry. A younger man.

     "Conor Roderick?" Bodie said. It was less a question than an expression of surprise.

     Cowley took off his glasses and peered at Bodie. "Aye, Bodie. Conor Roderick. The heir apparent." He opened the folder he was holding. "According to your file you knew him."

     Knew him. Knew him, bedded him, lost him. The man on the screen was thinner and paler than he remembered, the lines around the clear blue eyes cut more deeply, the face pinched and worn.

     Bodie nodded, his eyes still focused on the screen. "Back in the day. Merc days," he clarified. "We worked on the same mob a couple of times. He got religion, went back to Belfast." He hesitated barely a second. "We lost touch." He cleared his throat and turned to Cowley. "Heard his name around while I was stationed there. He was a Provo out of Derry, I think. Ran a brigade. Deadly, he was."

     "Still is. In fact, if anything, MacDiarmada's tutelage has made him even more deadly, more efficient at killing." Cowley looked at Bodie. "Did your paths cross while you were with the Paras?"

     He shook his head. "No, sir. I was keeping my head down."

     "Strictly keeping the peace," Doyle muttered.

     Bodie felt the fury rise up and press hard against the back of his eyes. As if some copper, even one from East London, could understand the insanity of Belfast. "Was my job now, wasn't it?" he asked harshly, turning on Doyle.

     "Yeah, well, and you took right to it, didn't you?"

     "Bodie. Doyle." Cowley's voice was quelling.

     Bodie set his jaw and sat back in his chair, eyes forward again. He didn't look to see if Doyle did the same.

     The next photograph was of a shorter man, stouter, with bright red hair. Bodie thought he looked vaguely familiar. "Sean Abernethy. More of a petty thug than a revolutionary. It's believed he was part of a number of sectarian attacks in Ireland, but the RUC could never pin anything on him. MI5 believes he was with MacDiarmada strictly as additional 'muscle' for the gang."

     "Was?" Doyle asked.

     "Don't you recognise one of your victims, Doyle? Abernethy was one of men shot yesterday."

     "Sorry, sir." Doyle's voice went quiet. Bodie snorted. Count on the sanctimonious bugger to feel guilty about killing the man trying to do the same to both of them.

     There was one final flash of the projector. The fourth man was also unremarkable: medium colouring, medium height, medium weight. Bodie recognised him immediately. "And here's the other. Peter Thompson. A foot soldier, completely committed to MacDiarmada but hardly notable."

     "Except for him being dead."

     "Yes, Doyle." The sarcasm in Cowley's voice matched Doyle's. "Except for that."

      The screen went white, and Bodie winced as the sudden brightness reminded him of his hangover. Then Doyle stood up and turned on the lights as Cowley turned off the projector.

     "So now MacDiarmada has washed up on our shores, gentlemen, bringing who knows what kind of trouble with him. MI5 received intelligence last week that he was coming to London with Roderick and the rest of his gang, but that's all they know. The informant doesn't know the scope of the operation or the intended target. Obviously, since it involves MacDiarmada directly, we can be assured it will be big."

     "Bombing, sir?" Doyle asked, still over by the door.

     "Didn't you hear me?" Cowley tossed his glasses down on the table. "We know painfully little about what the man intends. Too little," he muttered.

     "Sorry, sir." Doyle came over to the table and sat down again. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking—if this is MI5's, then where do we fit in?"

     "What? No sense of professional courtesy, Doyle?" Cowley asked without humour. Doyle shrugged. "Just curious."

     "Well, the two of you put your foot squarely in the game yesterday when you took down Abernethy and Thompson. Mucked things up good and proper."

     Doyle shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to protest. Bodie refused to rise to Cowley's bait and remained quiet.

     "You've rattled MacDiarmada's cage. He knows someone's on to him. His antenna's up. The game will be twice as nasty, and that means it's CIS's business now."

     Cowley tossed a folder across the table to Bodie, who barely reacted in time to catch it. Forewarned, Doyle made a better job of it with his.

     "Here are the latest updates from intelligence, plus everything we know about Roderick and MacDiarmada." Cowley looked at Bodie meaningfully. "I expect we can count on you, Bodie, to fill in some of the missing pieces on Roderick."

     "Sir," he asked, "don't you think MacDiarmada's likely called whatever it is off?"

     "No, I don't," Cowley answered crossly. "Didn't you hear me? The man's a fanatic. He'll not leave until the job is done"

     "Despite what happened—" Doyle was already leafing through his file.

     "Is there something wrong with the acoustics in this room? Yes, Doyle, despite the fact that he's lost two men and that we may be on to him. He'll not leave until the job is done. Or until the two of you stop him."

     "Yes, sir. Have we got any leads on his location?" Bodie was skimming as well.

     "No. He's gone to ground again. MI5 have lost him."

     "But you think we can find him?"

     "Maybe, Doyle—but what's more important is that I think the two of you can find Roderick." Cowley looked at Bodie. "You know him—know how to find him."

      The old bastard, Bodie thought. He couldn't know how things had really been between him and Roderick. Not even the Cow's files were that complete. Still, he shifted uneasily in his chair. "With all due respect, sir, that was fifteen years ago—" he began to object.

     "And Roderick will lead us to MacDiarmada" Cowley overrode him. "The two of you interrupted the transport of MacDiarmada's arsenal. We've got to assume that's hurt him. Now he's going to need new arms, new weapons, new resources." Cowley put his glasses on, looked over the rims at Bodie. "I think a visit to Mr Martell is in order, don't you?"

     "Look, sir—" He didn't like it. Didn't like any of it. Never worked out well when the past tried to mix with the present. Krieger had proved that. And Keller.

     "Roderick knew Martell, same as you, Bodie. And he and MacDiarmada are going to need more than a new arsenal. They're going to need men. If they brought four men to do the job, then that's what they need. And they're going to want men they can trust." Cowley smiled. "I think we can rely on Mr Martell to put in a good word for the two of you." He nodded at them both. "Dismissed."

     Bodie stood, picking up his folder.

     "Oh, and three-seven."

     Bodie stopped on his way to the door. "Sir?"

     "I'd like to see you a moment. I'd like to review our policy on proper firearms procedures."

 

AFTER A STINGING BUT BRIEF DRESSING DOWN, Bodie left Cowley's office. He ignored Doyle, who was waiting for him outside the door, and headed straight for the car park, giving him little choice but to follow. He climbed into the Capri, putting it into gear before Doyle had even finished settling in, the sudden acceleration throwing Doyle back against the seat. Doyle swore under his breath and propped one booted foot on the dash, his head turned resolutely away. A chilly silence settled over the car as Bodie drove towards the docks.

     Fine with him. Wasn't like he wanted another confrontation with Doyle. The driving gave him something to do, and he kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead. He didn't relish this assignment, any of it. The idea of seeing Roderick again after all these years stirred up resentments he didn't need on top of everything else—they'd ended badly, and Bodie had nursed a grudge for years before time had finally worn the worst of the sharp edges of pain away. Dealing with him while he was still raw from Doyle's rejection seemed the worst of all possible circumstances.

     They parked at the dock and paid to board the ferry—best place, most likely, to find Martell—and then wandered for a few minutes before they found him on the second deck, deep in conversation with a little man who immediately spooked at the sight of them. Martell noticed his reaction and looked back over his shoulder towards Bodie. He sighed as the little man backed away quickly and left the deck. Martell turned and gave Bodie a polite smile.

     "Bodie. You're not good for business, son."

     "Marty." They shook hands. "You've more business than you can handle and you know it. More important, _I_ know it." Bodie smiled and jerked his head in Doyle's direction. "You remember my partner, Doyle."

     Martell nodded. "Yes, of course. Rob all the women, rape all the men."

     Doyle stiffened. "If you like that sort of thing," he said, with a sidelong glance towards Bodie.

     Martell lifted an eyebrow before turning his attention back to Bodie. "Well, what can I do for you? Something simple, I hope. These favours are turning out to be very tiresome."

     "Not at all, Marty, not at all. You help us. We help you. And you encounter a minimum of complications in pursuing your chosen trade. Outside of British waters, of course."

     Martell's mouth twisted wryly. "Of course."

     "Seems like an eminently fair compromise to me." Bodie deliberately looked away, moved over to stand beside him at the rail, leaning out over the water like a tourist enjoying the ride. Doyle stayed back a pace or two, propping himself up against one of the girders. Martell was Bodie's fish to play.

     "So what is it this time, Bodie? Lose another gun?"

     "A number of guns, actually," Bodie said, his eyes skirting the horizon. "And wasn't us that lost them. I'm looking for an old friend. Might have been to see you recently." He turned back to Martell. "Very recently."

     Martell smiled again. "Ah. Conor Roderick."

     "The very man. We think he may have mislaid a rather large shipment over the last day or so."

     "Is this the Trafalgar Square incident?"

     "Didn't know you were keeping up with Channel Four, Marty. So have you seen him?"

     "He may have been around."

     "Listen, Martell." Doyle came up on his feet. "We've got a goddamn terrorist on the loose looking for guns, and if you've supplied him with so much as bows and arrows—"

     "Doyle," Bodie cut him off impatiently. "I'll handle this. Marty and I understand each other, don't we, Marty?"

     "I like to think so, Bodie"

     "So tell us—what was Conor looking for?"

     Martell considered Bodie for a moment and then shrugged. He'd obviously decided this wasn't something he could turn to profit, on either side of the line. "The usual. Guns. Light arms, hand guns, automatic rifles. I told him I couldn't help him."

     "Yeah?" Doyle sounded dubious.

     "Too hot. I told him he was too much of a risk right now. Every copper on the street's going to be out looking for whoever bankrolled that shipment. I don't need that kind of scrutiny—you know that, Bodie. I work below the radar."

     Bodie turned his gaze back to the water. "Did he want anything else? Other than the guns?"

     "Plastic explosives. C4, to be exact." Bodie whistled. "High class goods." Martell shrugged. "Couldn't help him there either."

     "Couldn't or wouldn't?" Doyle asked nastily.

     "That it?" Bodie pressed, ignoring Doyle.

     Martell hesitated. "Nothing related to my particular segment of the market, but he did mention he was recruiting. Didn't say what the job was, though."

     Bodie smiled. Bloody fucking omnipotent Cowley. "You have a way of contacting him?"

     "I might."

     "Don't try to play me, Marty. It won't be worth your time." He slung an arm around Martell's shoulder. "Old son, today you are going to do an invaluable service for Her Majesty the Queen."

     "I am?" Martell asked warily.

     "Yes, you are. You're going to get in touch with Conor. Tell him you've run into a mutual friend, someone who's a bit down on his luck, who's looking for a stake and in need of work."

     "I see." After a pause, Martell continued. "Am I to mention any names? Or is it supposed to be a big surprise?"

     Bodie smiled. "Not much of a carrot without any names, is it?"

     "I suppose not." Martell gave him a measured look. "What if he doesn't want to meet with you? I understand the two of you didn't part on the best of terms. Bit of a lovers' quarrel?"

     Bodie could sense Doyle's sudden interest. "Watch your step, Marty," he said softly. Martell stiffened. "You don't want to make me angry." Bodie produced a smile, although he suspected it wasn't very pleasant. "Besides, nothing to worry about. Conor will meet with me."

     Martell s smile was just as strained. He'd never responded well to threats, "Very well. What do you want?"

     "Arrange a meet. Get Conor to agree to a time and place. Someplace neutral."

     Martell frowned but nodded. He looked from Bodie to Doyle. "I assume there will be the usual consideration for my business affairs?"

     "You'll get your thirty pieces."

     "No need to get nasty, Mr Doyle. A man has to make a living. Very well. You've got a deal. I'll be in touch. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have other clients to attend to." With a nod Martell made his way back down the deck, in the wake of his skittish client.

     "Well," Bodie gave one last glance to the shore as the ferry turned in, "that's that." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and began walking in the direction of the gangway. "Fairly easy."

      "It's always easy when there aren't any scruples involved. Lucky for Cowley, the friends you've got."

     Bodie ignored him. Doyle could complain all he wanted—Cowley wanted Conor, and Bodie'd just delivered him, wrapped up like a parcel.

     The ferry was full and there was a crush of passengers leaving the deck as soon as it moored. The dock was slick with river water, and in the exodus Bodie felt himself slide a bit over the wet planks. Next to him Doyle did the same, slipped and stumbled, and Bodie instinctively put a hand on his back to steady him. Bodie felt the sudden flush of heat through Doyle's shirt, and Doyle went rigid as he pulled away, the colour rushing into his face and neck.

     "I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself."

     Bodie jerked back as if burned. Like they hadn't touched each other that way a thousand times before, in reassurance, in friendship, to ease pain. But touching was off limits now. Only one of the many rules.

     "I told you it wasn't contagious, Doyle," he said, forcing the words through a tight throat as he pushed past him and headed towards the car park. "But by all means, let's preserve your precious honour. I'll leave you to fall on your arse next time."

     The ride back to the office was silent. They parted company there—Doyle holed up in their office finishing overdue reports while Bodie went back to his flat to wait for the call from Martell. The next afternoon found them back in Cowley's office, standing awkwardly as he kept them waiting while he read a requisition for new equipment. Bodie stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Doyle slouched against the mantle looking disgruntled, his arms crossed over his chest. Bodie stole a quick glance at him —the swelling around his eye had gone down, but the flesh was still dark, purplish, a reminder of how bad things stood between them.

     "It's done?" Cowley scowled at them over the top of his glasses.

     Bodie nodded. "Done, sir. Martell arranged for a meet with Roderick tomorrow, over at The White Fox."

     Cowley took off his glasses and threw them down on the papers he'd been reviewing. "Took his time."

     "Only a bit over twenty-four hours, sir."

     "Hmm." Cowley looked none too convinced. "Well, sit down then. Don't stand there like the bloody postman."

     "Yes, sir." Bodie sat, aware of Doyle dropping into the chair next to him. Cowley studied them, lingering on Doyle's blackened eye. Bodie thought for a moment he might ask after it now, demand an explanation, but if he suspected the state of affairs between them he chose to say nothing.

     Cowley got up and opened the cupboard next to his desk, taking out a bottle and three glasses. "I'm sending you in alone, gentlemen." He poured a generous measure for himself before passing the bottle to Doyle. "Ciaran MacDiarmada can smell a conspiracy at twenty paces—I don't want his alarms raised any more than they already are. He's likely to be suspicious of everything, even of you, Bodie, despite your former association with Roderick. The fewer people we've got stumbling about, drawing his attention, the better."

     "Yes, sir," Doyle said. Bodie gave him a furtive glance —his mouth had thinned and his face was pale.

     "Aye, I don't like it any better than you do, Doyle, but what else can we do? We need to find out what MacDiarmada is planning. The only way we're going to do that is to get close, and the only way to get close is to put the two of you in the fox's den. I need you to gain his trust—or at least Roderick's," he said, with a quick glance at Bodie. "It's the only way we'll get the information we need."

     "What specifically are our orders, sir?" Bodie asked.

     Cowley turned to him. "You find out whatever mischief they're plotting, that's first—that s paramount. We need to stop whatever it is these villains have planned. But I want MacDiarmada, gentlemen. The man has blood all over his hands, and I want to see him stopped. Stopped and held up for all the world to see as the criminal he is, not as some bloody martyr for a sainted cause." He looked hard at both of them. "Do you understand me? I want him, and I want him alive to stand trial. I won't accept failure on this one."

     Bodie set his glass down on the edge of Cowley's desk and stood. "Understood, sir."

     Cowley waved his hand, dismissing them both. "Take the rest of the day to brief yourselves. Check in as soon as you can after the meet. We'll have to arrange for some kind of regular contact—we'll figure that out when we know more about the situation. And keep your wits about you," he called after them. "MacDiarmada's a wily fox—be careful how you set your trap, and see that you don't get caught in his instead."

     They picked up takeaway and went on to Doyle's flat to review the files. Doyle took the table and Bodie the settee, and they spread the contents of the files out—field reports, photos, medical records, and ballistics reports. They worked in silence, heavy and deadly, barely a handful of words passing between them. Four hours, and then Doyle made a sound filled with disgust and tossed down the papers he was reading.

     "What?" Apparently Doyle's impatience had finally overcome his disdain for Bodies company.

     "Ridiculous, is all. Walking into this kind of operation with this kind of notice."

     "It's nothing we haven't done before," Bodie said, rubbing his eyes. The files had brought up more memories than he liked. Like all of Cowley's records, they were comprehensive—picking up Roderick's trail only months after he'd left Africa, almost as soon as he'd landed in Belfast. They traced the history of his involvement with the Provos, from his early days as a volunteer in a local unit, to his gradual rise through the ranks, and finally his promotion to one of the inner circle.

      Someone had made sketchy notes in the margins. _Father dec'd Mother liv. —Killarney? Two sis. — Wakeman, Sara; m., Wakeman, Samuel, susp't Provo—Belfast Brigade? Falke (Faulke?), Alice, m., Falke (?), James, Dr, 2 child., Kathleen and Jamie. Roderick—unmar., no child._

     "Any more tea?" he asked. Now that the silence had been broken, he was reluctant to let it settle in again.

     Doyle gestured towards the kitchen, not offering to make it.

     "You want some?" he asked, doggedly determined to pretend this was no different from preparing for any other job.

     "I'm floating already." Doyle sat back, running his hands over his face before he crossed his arms over his chest and gave Bodie a measured look. "So how do you know Roderick again? Cowley said you'd fill in the gaps."

     Bodie got up and plugged in the kettle. He dropped a tea bag into his cup, avoiding Doyle's eyes. "Told you. Knew him back when I was lacking around Africa. Angola. South Africa. The Congo. Sometimes we were in the same gang." Sometimes in the same bed.

     Doyle's gaze didn't waver. Bodie could feel it, like a laser sight trained on him. "Friends, eh?" he said, with what Bodie knew was anything but harmless interest. "So what was all that Martell was getting on about yesterday? Lovers' quarrel and all."

     Christ. He managed a shrug. "How should I know what Marty's thinking? We were mates, Roderick and me. Good mates, before he went over. Weren't a lot that understood the life, Doyle. Not a lot of options outside your own kind. Could be treacherous sometimes."

     "But you liked him," Doyle persisted, steel in his voice. He felt his irritation rise and he flushed. "What do you want me to say, Doyle?" he asked finally. "Yeah, I liked him. We got on." He turned off the kettle. "Y'know, I've had too much tea, too. Where's your whisky? Unless you want to wrestle for it again," he added acidly.

     Doyle got up and took out the bottle, passing it to him without an argument. "Got on? What does that mean?" Damned if the bastard wasn't as tenacious as a terrier.

     "What'd'ya think it means, Doyle? We — " he looked away, shrugged uneasily, "—got on."

     "You slept with him," Doyle accused him. "Didn't you, you son of a bitch? You think I can't read between the lines here? You think I can't figure out what was going on? You slept with the bastard!"

     "And what if I did?" Bodie yelled, slamming down the bottle. "What's it matter now?"

     "You didn't say a word about it yesterday!"

     "Oh, yeah, Doyle, like I'm going to share something like that with George bloody Cowley standing two feet away from me," he said, pushing past him. "Jesus, Doyle—it was ten, fifteen years ago. It was the bush. It was another life. There weren't any rules. Leastwise, not about that."

     "And now?" Doyle challenged him.

      "And now what?" he snapped back. "I haven't laid bloody eyes on him since then!"

     "Yeah? You spent two bloody years with the Irish, didn't you?" Doyle got up in his face, wrapping a fist in Bodie's shirt. "Pretty damn convenient, I'd say. How do I know what you got up to there?" he demanded.

     "I haven't seen him since Africa! Now you can believe that or not, doesn't bloody well matter to me, but that's the way things are. We spent some time together and then he left and I haven't laid eyes on the man since then."

     "But he meant something to you, didn't he, Bodie?" Doyle's face was twisted up with a mix of emotions—anger and disgust and something that even looked like grief. "He meant something to you."

     Bodie shook him off. "What's it matter, Doyle? It was a long time ago."

     Doyle was right back in his face. "How could you? Man like that?"

     "He wasn't a bloody fucking terrorist then, now was he? You self-righteous prick. It's none of your goddamn business." He shoved him back again.

     Doyle stared at him, hands on his hips, eyes hard. "Jesus, that's some baggage you're carrying into this op!" He jammed a finger into Bodie's chest. "Are you going to be able to do what we've got to do here? This isn't a meeting of the old squadron, you know!" Doyle's face was furious. "We're hunting him. He's not your friend or—" and he seemed to struggle for the right word, " — or whatever the hell he was to you before. He's the worst kind of killer. Women and children—he doesn't bloody care. So just you remember that! I don't need you going soft on me when—"

     "Going soft?" He could feel the rage boiling up inside of him, tasting bitter and metallic in the back of his throat. Going soft. Pompous little bastard. He smiled at Doyle without any humour. "Don't you worry yourself, sunshine. I won't 'go soft'. And if I'm tempted to," he said, grabbing Doyle's shirt and forcing him up on the balls of his feet, "I've got myself a fine example of cold-bloodedness right here, haven't I?"

     "Take your hands off me." Doyle's voice was hard, cold as ice.

     "Back to that, are we?" He leaned forward, feeling Doyle strain against the hold he had on him as he tried to move away. "Just what are you so afraid of, Doyle? Afraid you might like it?" He tipped his head, lowering his mouth until his lips were just above Doyle's. "Afraid I can make you want it?"

     The colour rose high in Doyle's cheeks and his eyes flashed. "Arrogant prick. I told you to get your hands off me"

     Bodie smiled. "Fuck you." He shoved Doyle hard, pushed him backwards across the room and into the wall, hearing the small gasp as the air was knocked out of Doyle's lungs. He tilted his head to kiss him, feeling Doyle's hand close like a claw over his shoulder, and then his head snapped back as Doyle hit his jaw with the heel of his hand.

     "I said get off me." He was breathing hard through his mouth, his voice strained.

     Bodie felt the wetness on his lip, tasted the blood. He wiped it away, smiled and leaned in close.

     Doyle hit him again, this time on the face, a stinging blow with the palm of his hand. "Get off"

     "No."

     "Bodie—"

     "No" and he caught Doyle's hand as it lifted again. He held it above Doyle's head, pinned to the wall, and this time nothing prevented him from finding Doyle's mouth.

     It was a savage kiss. Bodie bit at his lips, demanding a reaction. Doyle tensed as if ready to push Bodie away, and Bodie could feel the muscles in his arms and legs begin to gather for the effort before he groaned and melted under the kiss, ignited under Bodie's hands like a match set against dry kindling. There was no more ice, just searing heat, Doyle arching and rubbing up against him as if he had given up control over his limbs, turned it all over to Bodie, and with a surge of hope Bodie sank his fingers deep into his hair and pulled his head close, deepening the kiss. Doyle's mouth opened on a groan that sent a shiver down Bodie's spine as he thrust his tongue inside.

     A ferocious kind of joy filled him. He'd barely had a chance to touch Doyle last time. There'd been just the one kiss— as unplanned as his confession had been misguided— before Doyle had thrown him off and torn into him, flaying him with biting words and hideous accusations. Now, he put his hands all over Doyle in rough, restless caresses that drew ragged moans from his throat. He didn't care that he was causing as much pain as pleasure. He wanted to punish Doyle as much as he wanted to love him, perhaps more so. There was nothing tender in his kisses— only passion and fire and a demand for Doyle's surrender.

     "Tell me you don't want me," he demanded hoarsely against his throat. He dragged his tongue along Doyle's jaw, feeling bristled skin against his tongue. "Tell me you don't want this," he said, shoving a leg between Doyle's and thrusting against him as he kissed him.

     Doyle dragged his mouth away and his voice was thick with lust and confusion even as he rode Bodie's thigh with seemingly helpless abandon. "Bodie—"

     Bodie gave him the edge of his teeth against the join of his neck, sharp and insistent, feeling the flesh quiver under his lips as Doyle caught his breath. He held him there, trembling at the edge of pain, before he moved his mouth to cover Doyle's again, forcing it open and shoving his tongue inside. His hands clamped down hard on Doyle's hips, restraining him with an iron grip as Doyle moaned at the loss of the friction against his prick and fought to grind his hips up against his. Feeling Doyle struggle opened up something dark and hungry inside of him, something that had to be fed. He wrenched his mouth away and shoved Doyle back against the wall, tearing at his clothing, wanting to feel flesh.

     "No." He was jolted out of a blinding haze of desire when suddenly Doyle pushed him back, separating them. Doyle stood there, his eyes dark, his shirt opened to his waist and hanging off his shoulders, his chest heaving. For a moment Bodie was snared by the agony on Doyle's face, the shame twisted around naked desire, and then need took over and he pushed close, felt the tension ratchet up before the grip of Doyle's hands changed, pulling him in instead of pushing him away.

     "Ah, Bodie—" Doyle's voice broke over his name and he closed his eyes in surrender. Bodie slid his hands through Doyle's hair and brought their mouths together again. These kisses were desperate, hungry, hard and unrelenting, and Bodie went back to work on Doyle's clothes, stripping off his shirt, unbuckling his belt and releasing his zip. He worked his hand down the front of Doyle's trousers and closed his hand around his prick, hard and already wet.

     Doyle hissed and caught his breath. "Feels good, doesn't it, sunshine," Bodie whispered, dizzy with his triumph. His anger receded enough to make way for elation, for pleasure. His lips slid over Doyle's ear as he whispered, rocking into him, "Feels so good, you feel so fucking good to me—"

     More kisses. Feverish, blistering kisses. Bodie thought he might burn alive where he stood, set aflame by Doyle's flint to his steel. Doyle's prick was hard in his hand and his hips shoved up against Bodie frantically, and Bodie was tempted to take him right there, up against the wall, hard and fast, without any consideration. But that wasn't enough now, wasn't enough for either of them.

     Doyle looked startled when Bodie pulled away, and Bodie smiled at the sight he made. He was flushed and randy, a feast for the eyes with his swollen lips and jutting prick. Doyle opened his mouth to say something, but Bodie cut him off, seizing his wrist and dragging him through the flat, needing that surrender underneath him, opening to him, needing Doyle to give him everything.

     The bedroom wasn't far, although it seemed to take them forever to get there. Night had fallen long since. The bedroom was dark—just a thin stripe of light from the hall cutting across the floor—and as his eyes adjusted there was nothing but the sound of Doyle's ragged breathing and his own, and the feeling of Doyle's pulse racing under his hand. Bodie stopped kissing Doyle long enough to pull him down onto the bed, long enough to strip his boots and his jeans from him. He wrestled Doyle underneath him, and Doyle suddenly began to struggle again, "No, no, I can't—get off me, you bastard, get off me," pushing at Bodie, his hands striking out and cuffing the side of Bodie's head.

     Bodie swore. Doyle landed another blow against his shoulder, still bruised from the encounter in Trafalgar Square, and Bodie hissed as the sting travelled down his arm. He grabbed Doyle's arms, pinning him, riding out the resistance as Doyle fought his hold. They struggled in the darkness, Bodies bruises aching under the strain of fighting Doyle's vigorous attempts to throw him off, until Doyle finally swore and subsided beneath him, watching him through the darkness with narrowed eyes. Shaking, Bodie backed off, lifting himself up on his arms and breathing hard as he stared down at Doyle. Waiting. He didn't know what this was—renewed anger or disgust or just blind panic—but there'd been no mistaking Doyle's earlier surrender, and Bodie would be damned if he'd let Doyle slip away from him without a fight. He would not take, dammit, much as he wanted to, much as he wanted to just bury himself inside him —if for no other reason than because he wouldn't give the bastard that out when the sun inevitably rose—but he'd not let Doyle slip away without a struggle, either.

     It seemed like ages, but finally, with a small groan, Doyle reached for him, his hands tugging at Bodie's clothing, and Bodie felt almost light-headed with relief, with the dizzying rush of hope and joy and the bright promise of victory. Whatever it was, it'd passed, it seemed, and he sat back on his hips, dragging his jumper off over his head as Doyle's hands undid his belt and his trousers. He felt Doyle's hand on him and it was sweet, so sweet—sweeter than he'd ever imagined. He leaned forward, muffling his groans against Doyle's ribs, and felt Doyle lift himself off the bed to meet his mouth.

     Doyle pushed Bodie's trousers further down his hips, struggling to get them off. Bodie rolled away from him and finished stripping, feeling Doyle's eyes on him, restless and hungry. Then they came together in the middle of the bed, and there was no resistance this time. Bodie settled on top of Doyle, aching and hard between his legs. They kissed again, and this time there was a tender edge to each kiss, even if they were no less desperate. Doyle's hands kneaded his shoulders, slid over his back and thighs, and Bodie began rocking against him insistently, his groans swallowed in Doyle's mouth.

     Soon he was driving himself against Doyle, hard and frantic, and Doyle was crying out, his fingers gripping Bodie's shoulders like a lifeline. He'd thought Doyle's surrender would tame the vicious need inside him; instead, it only seemed to feed the hunger. He pushed Doyle higher and higher, wresting choked cries of pain and pleasure as he marked him with his teeth, with hands that held too tightly, until Doyle shivered underneath him, although he didn't pull away. When he finally lifted himself off him, Doyle reached for him with feverish hands and a muffled cry of protest, and he seized Doyle's hair, pulling his head back and devouring his mouth again. When he spread Doyle's legs wider he felt him go rigid with tension, and Doyle's fingers dug into his forearms like talons, holding on tight, holding him still.

     "Relax, sunshine," he whispered, although he didn't recognise his own voice, and he slid down the bed, his mouth carving a wet path down the centre of Doyle's chest and over his hip. Doyle's prick was hard against his cheek, and wet, leaving a trail of moisture, and he turned his head enough to taste it with his tongue. This close to Doyle he could feel the heat rising off him and wave upon wave of desire. He smiled against Doyle's thigh. Doyle couldn't hide the way his body responded to Bodie.

     Bodie leaned up on his elbow and shoved three fingers into his mouth, sucking, making them wet. Need gave a new rhythm to the beat of the blood flowing through his veins, and his hand shook as he put it between Doyle's legs. Doyle's thighs quivered and he gave a wounded, strangled cry, and Bodie had to close his eyes tight, the sight of Doyle beneath him too tempting to bear. He worked his fingers into Doyle's arse—it was tight, tense, clenching and unclenching around his fingers—and he leaned over him, pressing his face into one trembling thigh, undone by the thought of all that heat.

     "Do you want me to fuck you?" he whispered, as he felt the muscles ripple against his cheek. "Do you want me to fuck you, Ray?"

     Doyle groaned and threw an arm over his face, as if to hide from either Bodie or himself. Neither rejecting nor acquiescing, neither willing nor unwilling. Bodie worked his arse until Doyle was moaning softly, shaking, until he could feel the muscles, if not completely surrender, at least give.

     "We need something," he said unevenly. He couldn't take Doyle with just spit. He rose up on his elbows and leaned over the edge of the bed, his hand feeling blindly over the top of the bedside table. He knocked over the lamp with a crash but couldn't find anything on the surface other than the alarm. Dizzy with need, he jerked open the drawer, pulling it out so far that it fell to the floor, along with all its contents. Searching among the scattered items, he found a strip of condoms, and a tube of something that felt wet and slippery on his fingers.

     He turned back to Doyle. "Lift your knees," he whispered, and held his breath as Doyle complied with an almost silent moan. He positioned himself between the upraised legs and slicked himself up, then used one hand to guide his prick slowly inside. Doyle tensed, seized up again, and groaned, his head rolling from side to side on the pillow.

     Bodie bit his lip and tried to hold still.

     "Don't stop." Doyle's knuckles were white and he was trembling all over. "Don't stop, damn you, don't you dare stop—"

     He pressed forward. It was the most painful kind of pleasure, feeling Doyle tight around him, fighting to relax, fighting to let him in. Doyle groaned again and tightened the arm over his face, his fist knotting in the pillow, but he lifted his knees higher, giving Bodie more access. Bodie seized on the small victory, lifted Doyle's legs onto his shoulders and pushed into him further. "Ray—"

     "Bodie—" Doyle released his name on a sob, but the tension inside him was easing. Bodie pulled out and pushed in again, finding it easier, and he took a tighter grip on Doyle's legs and did it again. He found a rhythm, hard-won and difficult to tame, just like Doyle.

     "Look at me." He tugged at the arm Doyle was still hiding behind. "Look at me, Ray" he said, his voice going soft. He leaned down and rested his forehead against the flimsy defence. "Look at me."

     Doyle drew another shuttering breath and lifted his arm away. The eyes that met Bodie's were fierce and wet and angry, filled with heat and need, and then Doyle's hands were in Bodie's hair again, pulling him down into a kiss.

     Bodie let himself drown in it.

 

RELEASED FROM THE STRAIN OF THE LAST few days, he fell asleep almost as soon as they'd finished, easing himself out of and down next to Doyle, feeling exhausted but filled with new hope. When he woke up it was still night, black as sin, and it took him several seconds to figure out where he was. When he did, when he could make out the dim outline of Doyle's figure beside him, the muscled shoulders and slim back, the head of curls, he smiled, feeling that happy lassitude return, and he turned to wrap an arm around him.

     "Get out." The pillow Doyle had his head buried in muffled his voice, but his words were still distinguishable, if unbelievable. Bodie jerked his hand back and sat up in confusion, feeling a chill run down his spine at the coldness in Doyle's voice, so different from the heated cries that had spilled from his mouth earlier. Now he could see the stiffness in Doyle's spine, the way his fist gripped the edge of the pillow, as well as the lingering traces of semen and the slick he'd used on him, evidence of what they'd done.

     He shifted uneasily on the bed and reached out again to put a hand on Doyle's arm. "Ray?"

     "Get your hands off of me," Doyle hissed viciously, jerking his arm away.

     It was like being hollowed out, like he'd been gutted by a sharp knife. He pulled his hand back again, fingers curling into his palm as if burned. "Bit late to complain, isn't it?" he asked, and with a kind of curious detachment he realised he sounded almost amused, as if his brain hadn't quite caught up with the rending of his heart yet.

     "Better late than not. We agreed." Doyle sat up and turned to him, wincing as he put weight on his arse. His face was pale, wiped clean of any emotion.

     Rules. The bloody rules. He took a deep breath to steady himself. It seemed to catch on all the raw, serrated places inside him. Was just jitters, he told himself desperately, and nothing they couldn't talk their way back from. Just had to stay calm and not let Ray's panic ruin them both. "Look, Ray, this — "

     "Was a mistake." Doyle rolled off the bed and onto his feet. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he looked dangerous despite his lack of clothing. "It shouldn't have happened, and it won't happen again."

     "Just like that? You say it's a mistake and it's over?" Anger helped cut the pain, the deep burn of betrayal. "How convenient, Doyle. Singing a different bloody tune now, aren't we, now you've got yours?"

     Doyle stared down at him. "You agreed, Bodie. You said you wanted to save the partnership, that you'd agree to whatever we needed—"

     " Whatever _you_ needed — "

     "We _agreed_ , Bodie. We both agreed. And that lasted long, didn't it?" His laugh sounded as hollow as Bodie felt. "Well, you got what you wanted— "

     "What _I_ wanted—"

     " — so get out now."

     "Doyle — "

     "Get out! Now!" Doyle's hands were trembling. "Or I swear to god, Bodie, I'll kill you."

     "Kill me? Like some bloody wounded virgin?" He laughed bitterly. The arid taste of lost hope burned the back of his throat. "Try it. Like to see you explain that one to the Cow."

     "I'm not going to tell you again—"

     "Yeah?" Hurt and anger drove him off the bed, advancing on Doyle, who retreated until his back was against the wall. "Well if that's the way you feel about it, take your best shot, mate." His hands were shaking but his voice was clear and hard. "This close enough?" he asked, pointing at his chest, inches away from Doyle. "Wouldn't want you to miss."

     For a moment Doyle's eyes blazed at him, filled with fury, and then the mask fell into place as the fire went out of him. "Just get out, Bodie. Before we both do something we'll regret."

     Faced with Doyle's mask of indifference, he swallowed hard and turned away. Despair rose up to fill the hole inside of him, smothering anger and the fledgling, tender feeling he refused to name. He looked around for his clothing, pieces flung haphazardly about, and his fingers were cold, almost numb, as he pulled his trousers on and fastened them. It took him only minutes to finish dressing, his mind mercifully blank for most of it, although he could feel Doyle's eyes on him every second, watching him warily. When he left, he slammed the door behind him.

 

"HE'S LATE," DOYLE COMPLAINED. "IT'S ALMOST half past one.

     "He's looking us over," Bodie contradicted him. They were on a bench at a table in the back of the pub. Bodie had his legs stretched out in front of him, his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. Doyle was next to him, hunched over the table, ostensibly playing a game of solitaire. It was his fourth or fifth game, Bodie thought, although he wasn't sure—they'd been waiting for a couple of hours. He watched Doyle's hands lay the cards, aware of every breath Doyle drew, every time he shifted his leg or his arm, every time he threw a sidelong glance towards Bodie. The way he flinched every time he put his weight on his arse without thinking about it, or when he even thought Bodie was getting near or might touch him. The night before had branded them both like a slow-burning fire, hot and destructive, leaving nothing but ashes.

     He knew Roderick well enough to know he was out there someplace, lurking. Evaluating the situation. They'd opened the pub, him and Doyle, and now there were but thirty minutes till the mid-day closing. Roderick would have to make his move soon, if he was going to make it at all.

     "Thought he trusted you."

     Bodie's jaw tightened. "Told you —it's been a lot of years. Besides, he's probably not sure what to make of you. Be natural for him to be a bit cautious."

     "Yeah, well, maybe he's not coming, 'd'you ever think of that? Maybe he doesn't trust Martell. Maybe we shouldn't be trusting Martell," Doyle muttered, placing a seven of spades over an eight of diamonds.

     Bodie didn't answer immediately. It wasn't the first time Doyle had raised the objection and it probably wouldn't be the last. Doyle could be tiresome at the best of times when he got a bit of raw meat between his teeth. Now that he was strung tight as a wire, it only made things twice as bad.

     Bodie lifted his pint and drank, wiping the foam off his lip when he was finished. "Marty's all right," he said finally. "If he says he can deliver Roderick, then he can. And if Roderick said he'd be here, then he'll be here."

     "Oh, yeah, right. I forgot. Ex-mere loyalty. Honour among thieves and all. 'Cept all this isn't very honourable, is it? Turning over one of your own."

     Bodie forced his jaw to relax. He couldn't blame Doyle for his reservations about the job. The operation Cowley had put together was an exercise in some pretty long odds. Success hung on the cooperation of a slippery gunrunner and the dodgy chance that a connection more than ten years old could be used to swing the scales in their favour.

     And George Cowley's luck, of course, which put an end to the matter for Bodie right there. Cowley's luck — Cowley's instincts — had always been enough for him, even when Bodie thought he was a crazy bastard. If Cowley wanted him to sit in the middle of bloody Mayfair with a target pasted on his back, Bodie would ask when and how big.

     "If you've got a better suggestion for getting to Roderick, take it up with Cowley. I'm sure he'd be very interested in any ideas you've got to offer," Bodie snapped.

     Doyle hesitated over a four of clubs and then threw down the deck. "No. I don't."

     They fell silent. Bodie worked steadily through his lager. The previous night seemed like half dream, half nightmare, shrouded in shadows and darkness. He'd got everything he'd dreamt about with Doyle, and today it was nothing more than ashes in his mouth. They were further apart then they'd ever been. And with the job now, the timing couldn't have been worse.

     He shifted and his leg touched Doyle's under the table. They both stiffened, and Doyle drew further back along the bench. "I'm hungry," he said suddenly.

     "Stopped serving," Bodie replied, nodding his head towards the board by the bar where the menu had been erased. He shrugged. "Bags of crisps maybe."

     "Bag of crisps'll do." Doyle stood up and walked away without looking at Bodie.

     He watched Doyle head off towards the bar and then went back to studying his empty glass. The waiting was working on his nerves, same as Doyle's, but for different reasons. Hard to know how Roderick would react to seeing him again. Hard to know how much he'd have changed, or what Bodie'd have to do to get Roderick to trust him again.

     He looked back over at Doyle and was surprised to see Doyle watching him, the bright lights up at the bar throwing his features into prominence. There were dark shadows under his eyes, so dark that if he didn't already know, it would be hard to tell which eye he'd hit. He looked exhausted and haggard, like he hadn't had any more luck sleeping after Bodie left than Bodie'd had.

     A blast of cold air distracted them both, and Bodie looked over to see someone coming through the door of the pub. "And once again George Cowley's infamous luck delivers," he muttered under his breath as he recognised the face of Conor Roderick.

     The first time he'd laid eyes on Roderick had been in Cairo —he'd been there on holiday, spending the money he'd just made fighting for the FNLA, flush with pounds and randy as hell. Roderick had walked into the sun-drenched plaza of a cafe where Bodie was having breakfast, brown as blazes, pale eyes startling in his dark face, looking arrogant and brash and sexy. They were in bed together before the afternoon was over, and the first few weeks had passed in a haze of dry desert heat and sex. They went back to Angola together and settled into something that worked for both of them. It was volatile and passionate—they fought as often as they fucked—but Roderick had always been a man to whom smiling came easily. He'd been hedonistic, audacious, and affable, and at eighteen, Bodie had been hard on the outside but still soft enough on the inside. He'd fallen in love.

     Only echoes of the man Bodie'd known remained. Roderick had lost the colour the jungle had given him; he was reed thin and pale, cast in hard lines and angles. In person, the changes hinted at in the photograph were even more pronounced: Roderick's hairline was beginning to recede, and a cautious, controlled manner had replaced the easy animal grace Bodie remembered. Roderick was dressed in nondescript trousers and a jacket, his jumper fraying around the collar and sleeves. Bodie recognised the careful efforts to deflect attention.

     "Bodie." Roderick walked directly up to their table without even looking about, confirming his suspicions that they'd been under his surveillance, and acknowledged him with a slight nod.

     "Conor." He set an expression of bemused recognition on his face. "Conor Roderick. Well, I'll be damned, Marty was right— I was sure he was getting you confused with someone else." He uncrossed his legs, used one foot to shove a chair back from the table. "Have a seat."

     "Thank you." Roderick settled himself. There was a moment of heavy silence as they sized each other up. Roderick's eyes were fixed on Bodie; their intensity contradicted his unremarkable appearance. "I was surprised when Marty mentioned you. Never thought to see you outside of a jungle."

     Bodie shrugged. "There are jungles and jungles."

     Roderick nodded. "Last time I saw you was Oran." When Bodie didn't answer him, he continued. "You were on your way to Cape Town, I think."

     " _We_ were on our way to Cape Town. Or so I thought. Woke up to an empty bed, didn't I?" His voice was light but his eyes held Roderick's steadily. He shook his head. "And not even a Dear Johnny note."

     Roderick shrugged the derision aside, as if it were immaterial. "Seemed best at the time, Bodie. There was no good answer to the problem. I needed to leave and you wanted to stay."

     "Best thing for you, you mean," Bodie said evenly. It'd torn him apart at the time, leaving scar tissue that had only hastened the process of growing harder and colder.

     "You made your own decisions back then, Bodie, same as me. It hurt like hell to leave you like that, without even a word. But you didn't want to go and I couldn't stay." Roderick paused. "It wasn't an easy decision for me."

     "That so?" Bodie felt a wry smile twist his lips. "Seemed easy enough from where I was standing— one day you were there and one day you weren't. What could be easier than that?"

     "You knew how I felt. I thought you'd understand my leaving."

     "You mean you knew there was nothing I could do to stop you and so you did what you damned well pleased." Roderick's eyes were still intent, narrowed. "You didn't give a damn if I understood," Bodie continued. "You didn't give a damn whether I understood or not."

     "I had to go." Roderick shook his head. "It was important." Bodie smiled without humour. "More important than me, anyway. But it's water under the bridge."

     "I wanted you with me, you know I did. I asked you to come with me." Roderick leaned forward and put a hand on Bodie's arm; it was warm through his sleeve, the grip solid. The look in his eyes intensified, turning them dark and unreadable.

     It was an unexpected move, and Bodie didn't like anything unexpected, especially not on a job. He went still and shook his head. "You knew I couldn't—"

     "I knew you wouldn't." Roderick's gaze was intent. He didn't move his hand. "Bodie—"

     "Why don't you introduce me, Bodie?"

     He started. It was Doyle. Bodie hadn't even noticed him coming up behind Roderick, and he could tell by the anger in Doyle's eyes that he knew it as well. Roderick straightened and removed his hand, turning to watch Doyle slide around him and reclaim his seat on the bench next to Bodie. Roderick acknowledged him with a brief nod.

     "This your man?" Roderick asked Bodie.

     "I'm his _partner_ ," Doyle interrupted before Bodie could respond, a slight chill in his voice. He leaned back and looked at Roderick over the top of his glass. Times like this, Doyle could look as hard and flinty as steel. "You Roderick?"

     Bodie waved his hand between the two of them. "Ray Doyle —Conor Roderick. Roderick—Doyle."

     Doyle stared at Roderick, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I know most of Bodie's mates. Never heard him talk about you before yesterday."

     Roderick studied Doyle carefully. "It's been a few years."

     "I told you, Doyle—Roderick and I knew each other back when I was in Africa. It was a lot of years ago —we've been," he glanced at Roderick, "out of touch."

     "Hmm." Doyle smiled at Roderick with a lazy, shark-like grin. "And yet here you are, like the proverbial bad penny."

     "Guess that's none of your business, mate." Anger darkened Roderick's face.

     "Guess as long as I'm sitting next to Bodie it is." Doyle sounded smug.

     "It's fine," Bodie said, smiling at Roderick. "Conor's okay."

     Doyle tensed, his mouth turning down, before he shrugged indifferently. "On your head."

     Roderick frowned at him, clearly not pleased with Doyle, and then looked around before turning back. "Let's find someplace else where we can talk," he said. "This place's too public for my tastes."

     Doyle drained his glass and banged it down on the table. "Fine. Let's go."

     "Just Bodie."

     "I told you," Doyle said, his face darkening as he jerked his thumb towards his chest. "I'm his partner. You wanna talk to him, you talk to both of us."

     "Y'know, Doyle, I never heard of you before yesterday either. Don't know as I should trust you any more than you trust me."

     Doyle smiled again, cold and deadly. "Doesn't change the arrangement, mate. You wanna make a deal with him" he said, pointing at Bodie, "you talk in front of me. We're a package deal, Roderick."

     "Bodie?" Roderick looked at him, clearly expecting him to intercede.

     "Things change, Roderick." Bodie shrugged. "A man gets older, he likes someone watching his back." The expression on Roderick's face—resentment, regret—was so fleeting and so swiftly controlled that Bodie could almost imagine he hadn't seen it. Except he had, and so had Doyle, who bristled on the bench next to him.

     "He's my partner, Roderick," Bodie said firmly. "I want him on the job. Look, whatever you got for me, having Doyle along will only make things easier. He's a good man. Even if he is a bit of a hothead," he finished, aiming the last of his words at Doyle.

     "I don't know, Bodie. I don't know him. And what I've seen I don't like," he said to Doyle, whose lips curled in a cold smile. "I'm not in the mood to take chances."

     "Fine." Doyle shrugged and leaned back, dismissing him. "Call us when your mood changes."

     "Doyle, knock it off," Bodie said, irritated as hell. Wasn't the bloody job hard enough as it was? What was the bastard playing at?

     "Bodie—" Doyle began to protest.

     "I said knock it off." He took a deep breath—Doyle would have his balls in a grinder later. He turned to him. "Go get yourself a drink."

     "Now you listen to me, Bodie—" Doyle's eyes flashed fire.

     "Get yourself a goddamn drink, Doyle. Give Roderick and me a chance to talk."

     Doyle looked at him, unmoving, and for a moment Bodie thought he was going to challenge him right in front of Roderick. Then he stood, every muscle in his body quivering, drawn tight into one hard, unforgiving line. The look on his face was thunderous. "I'll be at the bar."

     Roderick shook his head as soon as Doyle was out of earshot. "He's a time bomb, Bodie. He's too unpredictable."

     "What matters is that he's good. Doyle's ten times better than the best you'll get anywhere else, Roderick. And he's right, we're a package deal." Bodie had seen the look on Roderick's face. He had room to push.

     "So it's like that, is it?" Roderick waited expectantly. When Bodie stayed silent his face darkened. "Am I trespassing on something I don't know about? Is there something between the two of you?"

     Bodie shook his head. "There's nothing," he denied firmly, even as a kaleidoscope of images played out in his mind—Doyle aroused and writhing beneath him, anger and heat in his eyes. His face, flushed and sweaty, as he cried out and came all over Bodie's hand.

     Bodie returned Roderick's gaze evenly. "Besides, even if there were something between Doyle and me," he said, and his voice hardened, "you're hardly in a position to trespass on anything."

     Roderick raised an eyebrow. "What we had was good, Bodie," he said quietly.

     "What we had is over. You walked out on it." Bodie sighed. "Look, Marty said you had work. Doyle and I need a stake. I figure if we can put aside our differences, maybe we can help each other."

     Roderick seemed to consider Bodie's words, then he nodded abruptly, back on task. "Fine. We'll talk." He glanced over at Doyle. "But if we reach a bargain he takes his orders and keeps his mouth shut. I don't want any loose cannons on this job."

     Doyle clammed up as they left the pub and kept his mouth shut after that, slumping sullenly in his chair while Bodie talked with Roderick. He left the negotiating to Bodie, which was a relief, but Bodie could feel the weight of his silent fury, Doyle's eyes on him all the time, cataloguing his every move.

     In the end Roderick agreed to take them on, just as Cowley had hoped. He came to terms quickly—said he knew what Bodie was worth and was willing to pay it, although they'd have to be patient about the money; it was being arranged through other channels. They reached an agreement: half in advance, half when the job was over. Hard as Bodie pushed, though, he couldn't get much out of Roderick about the job itself. Just that it was soon, it was dangerous, and it was big.

     "How big is big?" Bodie called out to Roderick, looking around the cramped flat Roderick had set himself up in. temporarily. It was a grim place, grey walls and battered furniture, a threadbare rug covering a worn floor. The paint on the mantel was scorched and blistered from a heater that burned too hot. The whole building was probably a fire hazard. If Roderick was keeping weapons here, they were hidden, and there was no sign of a double occupancy—obviously MacDiarmada's bolthole was someplace else.

     Roderick came back from the kitchen with a half-full bottle and passed each of them a glass of whisky before sitting down. "Bigger than anything Whitehall's ever seen before," he said, with a sudden flash of teeth in a smile that didn't quite make it all the way across his face. He leaned forward, his face flushed, speaking directly to Bodie. "Big enough to make them sit up and take notice, finally. To take us seriously," he stressed. "They won't be able to ignore us now, Bodie, not after this." There was zealousness in his expression, in his voice, that shone through the weariness on his face. It was mesmerizing and terrifying.

     "With just three men?" Doyle interrupted, sounding dubious. He gestured among the three of them. "You and me and Bodie?"

     "There's a fourth. Although he won't be involved in the actual operation. But he's our strategist. You'll meet him later," Roderick said, cutting off Doyle's obvious next question, "when he says it's time. In the meantime, where're your togs? Let's have the two of you move in here. Be easier all around if we're together."

     "Easier on who?" Doyle muttered.

     "Keeping an eye on us, Conor?" Bodie raised an eyebrow.

     "You blame me, Bodie?" Roderick asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

     "Always admired a man who was careful," he replied easily. "We've got a couple of rooms over in Lewisham. We'll need to clear out, settle some bills," he added pointedly.

     Roderick pulled out his wallet and held out a handful of notes towards Bodie. "On account."

     Doyle intercepted the bills, shaking his head. "Expenses." He picked up his jacket. "I'll go," he said, waving Bodie back into his chair. "No sense in us both going."

     "Good." Roderick nodded at Bodie. "Give you and me a chance to catch up a bit."

     Doyle's eyes narrowed and he turned to Bodie. "Yeah, well, while you're indulging in the old auld lang syne, just make sure you find out when we get paid. You may trust this Irish bastard but I don't. I want everything worked out clear as glass before I lift a finger." Doyle looked at Bodie. "I'll be back in an hour." He slammed the door behind him on his way out.

     Roderick looked at Bodie and rolled his eyes, the smile settling fully on his lips. He held up the bottle. "Another?"

     Bodie nodded, held out his glass and let Roderick refill it.

     "So is he always like this?" Roderick asked as he poured.

     "Who, Doyle?" Bodie shook his head. "Nah. I mean, he's not easy, no, but you two just hit it off wrong."

     Roderick settled back in his chair, looking more relaxed now that Doyle was gone. "Not easy isn't the half of it. How did you meet him?"

     "On a job." Back in the day, a man didn't push too hard for another man's history, but there was no way of knowing how much Roderick would demand to know now, given the stakes. Cowley had set up cover stories, but—

     "Africa?"

     Bodie shook his head. "It was after. After I came back."

     Roderick looked down into his glass. "Why did you come back, Bodie?" he asked softly. "You were pretty adamant you weren't ever leaving the jungle, last time I saw you."

     Bodie shrugged, took a sip. "I had my reasons," he said, after he swallowed. And he had. He'd been choking with the senseless violence. The wars where the players changed sides faster than anyone could keep track. He'd longed for something he could put his faith in, something he could build a life on. Something or someone. "Long story," he said shortly.

     "I'd be interested," Roderick said, finally looking up at him, and there it was again, that undercurrent of emotion.

     He shook his head. "Not very exciting. Bore you to tears, it would."

     "Guess I'm the best judge of that, don't you think?" Roderick smiled suddenly. He nudged Bodie's foot with his boot, unexpectedly playful. "C'mon, Bodie. Fill in the years for me?"

     Bodie considered. It was obvious Roderick still felt something. It had been there in almost every look he'd given Bodie, the jealousy in his questions about Doyle. How much was hard to say—it could be Irish sentimentality or something more. He wondered cynically how far he could push that, if it could be used to the job's advantage. "Your time," he finally said, with a friendly smile. "You remember Krivas?"

     Roderick nodded, a frown appearing between his eyes. "Krivas was a bastard."

     "That he was. Well, after you took off, I went with his mob for a while. Angola. The pay was good even if the company wasn't." Bodie had plenty of colourful truth to weave into his lies. "I was with him for a while, until we had a falling out. There was a girl — "

     "There was always a girl, if I remember." Roderick interrupted him with a grin.

     The gentle mockery was familiar. "Yeah, well, this time it got ugly. She wound up with a bullet in the head, and I left."

     Roderick's smile faded. "I'm sorry, Bodie. Must've been tough, coming right after—"

     "You leaving without a word? Well, I'd had a bit of practice being left alone by then, didn't I?" He didn't give Roderick a chance to respond. "After that I took a job in the Congo, but that blew up in my face, too. Spent a couple of months in a jail there for my trouble. Probably still be there except rebels raided the town and blew up damn near everything in sight, including the jail." Bodie took a deep breath and shook his head. "After that I was pretty much done with anything south of Algiers and ready to find something else."

     "So how did you get back here?" Roderick asked, reaching back for the bottle. He held it up again; Bodie shook his head but then, feeling reckless, changed his mind and nodded, letting Roderick refill his glass.

     "I hooked up with Marty—he was running guns down the Congo to some petty little dictator. I was just running. He offered me a ride for a little free labour, and the next thing I knew I was having me tea in Piccadilly Square." His grin was counterfeit; actually he'd gone from Africa to the army, and then Belfast, and that had felt as far from Piccadilly Square as Angola ever did.

     "And you never—?" Roderick stopped, shook his head. He was frowning.

     "Never what?" Bodie tensed. It was obvious he'd said something to anger Roderick.

     "You were that close and you never once tried to get in touch?" Roderick demanded. "You never tried to find me?"

     "Well—" Bodie fumbled for an answer. Couldn't very well say the only interest he'd had in the Proves was locking away as many of them as possible. "Neither did you—" he began.

     "I thought you were in Africa!" Roderick exploded, on his feet and looming over Bodie, "I thought you were still in the jungle! How was I was to know you were in London? Don't you think I would have tried to find you, if I'd known?"

     He stood and shoved Roderick back, pointing a finger at him. "Don't you put this on me, Conor! You left me to join the bloody IRA—it's not like that lot are listed on the exchange. _God_." He shook his head in frustration and turned away. "What the hell was I supposed to do—you tell me that! Call Holy Cross and say, 'I'm sorry to disturb you, Father O'Faolain, but I'm looking for one of your local IRA boys—tall, fair, good with explosives? Perhaps you've seen him?'"

     Roderick grabbed his shoulders and pulled him around. "Marry had contacts. You could have tried!"

     "You could have stayed!" He flung the words back at Roderick, pulling away. He shook his head in confusion. "Look, it was all ten years ago anyway. What the hell does it matter any more?"

     "What does it fucking matter, Bodie?" Roderick sounded both angry and incredulous. He clenched a fist into Bodie's shirt. "I loved you, you bastard," he hissed, "and it's been half a life without you since then. You have any idea what it meant to me when Marty told me you were in town? When I saw you in the pub today?"

     "Conor—" Bodie thought furiously. He hadn't planned for this. Curiosity he'd reckoned on, nostalgic friendship he'd hoped for—but this, this _want_ , this _need_ bleeding off Roderick—this he'd never expected.

     He was still scrambling for a response when he felt Conor's hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in close. He fended him off, shaking his head. "Conor, we can't do this."

     "Why not?" Roderick whispered, voice full of longing. "What's there stopping us? Unless—" His eyes glinted as his jaw tightened. "There is something between you and Doyle, isn't there?"

     "No." Bodie shook off Roderick's hand and turned away. "Look, I told you—there's nothing between Doyle and me, not like that. This doesn't have anything to do with him. This thing between us—" He laughed bitterly. "Jesus, what am I saying? Conor, there isn't anything between us! It's over. It's ten years over. Let it alone —respect the dead."

     "I can't. Not now I've seen you, Bodie. God, I've missed you." Roderick spoke quickly, his voice low and urgent. "I wanted you with me." He took hold of Bodie's shoulders again, held fast when he tensed and would have pulled away. "There wasn't a day it didn't kill me not to have you there. When I saw you today—"

     "Conor—"

     "No. _No_." Roderick turned him around, and Bodie had a brief glimpse of Roderick's face before his mouth was taken, Roderick kissing him greedily. Taken by surprise, Bodie went still and smothered the instinct to resist, his mind still turning over the possibilities. Reject him and who knew what the fallout would be—to him, to Doyle, to the job. Sleep with him and it would be a leg up, and a way inside, maybe.

     Doyle would be furious if he found out. But it would be a bit of his own back then, wouldn't it? Doyle didn't want him—couldn't complain, could he, if someone else did? Especially if it helped the job —

     He kissed Roderick back. Put his arms around him and felt the other man's body slam into his, full of heat and need. Roderick groaned into his mouth and Bodie wrapped his tongue around it, teasing him, tasting whisky. It was strange and familiar all at the same time.

     Roderick eased out of the kiss and laughed softly.

     "What?"

     "Ah, Bodie. 'Tis a dilemma, it is." Roderick kissed his ear, his neck, his hands already burrowing under Bodie's clothing. His voice was rough and uneven. "So many years of dreaming about you. And now a feast. Where is a man to start?"

     "Here," Bodie said. He twisted a hand in Roderick's hair and brought his mouth back for another kiss. This time the kiss quickly turned hard, rough, Roderick's hands almost cruel as they touched Bodie, splayed out over his flesh and dug in, holding him fast. Bodie bit back a groan of pain when Roderick fastened his teeth on his naked shoulder, the fleshy inside of his arm, and he wondered how much anger was mixed in with the need, with whatever love Roderick still claimed to feel. He couldn't hold back the moan when Roderick's teeth found their way to his chest, working his nipples until they were hard and swollen.

     Sex in the bush had often been quick and furtive, made uncomfortable by the heat and humidity and the narrowness of their bedrolls. It felt no less furtive now—what with the clock ticking on Doyle's return and the future barrelling down on Bodie, whatever it might bring—but at least here there was a bed, even if the mattress was lumpy and not much wider than a bedroll.

     Roderick's skin was flushed and hot, as if he were touched by a fever. He pressed Bodie down onto the bed, eating at his mouth with starving kisses even as his hands gentled. Bodie turned his head away from the eyes gazing down too intently at him and let Roderick's mouth chart the feel and shape and taste of him. There was honest desire in Roderick's need, at least, and none of the shame that seemed to be all Doyle could feel, shame and disgust. Bodie felt bitter resentment rise in his gorge.

      It was everything he wanted from Doyle, given by the hands of the enemy.

     They fell naturally into old habit, remaining mostly silent, the loudest sound between them the occasional whispered direction. Roderick's eyes spoke volumes, though, the way they always had, and Bodie moved against him, wanting only to drive the heat between them higher, along with the temperature in his own blood, high enough to burn away any regret.

     They wrestled, fighting for dominance, and when the advantage came around to Bodie again, he rolled Roderick beneath him and straddled his thighs. He wrapped his hand around Roderick's prick and stroked him hard, feeling it jerk in his hand, feeling a savage kind of victory when Roderick bit off a cry and arched up, his eyes wide and fastened on Bodie. Bodie leaned over him, dragging his tongue over a nipple before biting down sharply, and Roderick sucked in his breath and wrapped an arm around the back of Bodies neck, trapping him.

     Bodie shook himself free, sitting back on his heels. He wrapped his other hand around his own prick and stroked himself, displaying himself, feeling the muscles gather in his thighs and in his belly. Roderick groaned again, his face flushed and sweaty, but he didn't take his eyes off Bodie, not until the very end, when his head fell back and he came silently all over Bodie's hand and across his chest. The deep yearning, the intoxicated pleasure written clearly across Roderick's face was like salve against the raw, now festering wounds inflicted by Doyle's callous rejection, and when Bodie came, painting Roderick's softening prick in warm, wet stripes, he tried to ignore the fact that his satisfaction was as much a shameful, pathetic relief that he was wanted as it was about physical release.

 

THEY CUT IT CLOSE. BODIE HAD JUST FINISHED pulling on his boots when they heard the knock on the door. Roderick left the chain on as he checked, and then removed it to let Doyle in.

     Doyle shoved him aside unceremoniously and dumped their carryalls just inside the doorway. "George paid me the three and seven pence he owed you," he said to Bodie, ignoring Roderick.

     Bodie nodded. He'd checked in. "About time, the bastard. Any letters?"

     "Couple of messages— that bird you were seeing. I'll tell you later." Doyle turned to Roderick and Bodie could see the hackles rising. "Where are we bunking?"

     Roderick looked at Bodie, asking. Bodie shrugged and told himself he didn't care. Bound to come out sooner or later — chances of keeping something like this from Doyle were slim to nothing. Besides, wasn't like he couldn't come up with ten good reasons for what he'd done. And who was Doyle to complain anyway — wasn't like he hadn't told Bodie a million and a half ways how much he wasn't wanted.

     Doyle caught the undercurrent and turned grim eyes to them both, looking from Bodie to Roderick and then back again.

     "There's a room at the end of the hall," Roderick finally said. "You can take that."

     Doyle's eyes didn't move from Bodie. "And you?" he asked dangerously.

     Seemed to Bodie there was more than a hint of victory in Roderick's voice. "Leave Bodie's things here. He's in with me."

     His words were followed by deadly silence. Bodie shifted uneasily under Doyle's glare. No way to explain with Roderick standing there. No way to explain at all, maybe. "Look at it this way," he said, forcing a note of levity into his voice. "You won't have to listen to me snore."

     The edges of Doyle's mouth had gone white. "You bastard," he whispered. "You bloody fucking bastard."

     "Doyle." Roderick took a step forward. Doyle held up a hand, warning him off.

     "No." His eyes were deadly but his voice had gone calm and cold as ice. He picked up his bag and hefted it onto his shoulder. "No. You want Bodie?" he asked Roderick. "You take him. Haven't got much use for him that way, not really." He looked Bodie up and down witheringly, his disgust barely hidden. "Never did see the attraction, myself."

     It was like being sliced open by a well-honed blade: barely a sting at first, and then the searing pain, followed by the blood welling over the open wound. Doyle's lip was curled with derision, and Bodie felt shame heat his face; he turned away quickly so that neither of them would see.

     "Just remember," Doyle said, stopping just before he left the room, "this doesn't change the price. Or if it does," Bodie looked up to see Doyle glaring at him, "it comes out of your end. Just you remember that."

 

"I LOST HIM," BODIE SAID, AS SOON AS THE DOOR to the flat closed behind him. He leaned over for a moment, hands on his knees, working his jaw as he dragged air into his lungs, and then he straightened and slammed his fist into the wall.

     "What the hell happened?" Doyle snapped, and Bodie turned on him. Doyle had worn away his last nerve over the past twelve hours— sitting in silent censure, freezing him out. In defiance, Bodie had taken Roderick back to bed, fucking them both into exhaustion, knowing that no matter how quiet they were, it wasn't quiet enough to keep Doyle from hearing them.

     At breakfast that morning, Roderick had been up, high on the job or the sex, Bodie wasn't sure which, although he'd seen him affected that way by both before. Doyle had appeared halfway through the sausage and eggs and refused everything, setting himself up at the window with a cup of tea, by turns sullen and snappish whenever the conversation came his way. Bodie pushed Roderick again for information on the job, but apparently their new relationship didn't make him anymore forthcoming. He'd put Bodie off with another smile and a promise that he would tell him everything as soon as the time was right. When he announced plans to check in with their fourth man, he flatly refused to bring Bodie along and wouldn't be budged, insisting he couldn't, not until he'd talked it over first with the man. With almost no time to make a decision, Bodie had exchanged a few brief, heated words with Doyle while Roderick was in the toilet, and they'd decided that Bodie would try to follow him while Doyle searched the flat to see what he could find. Except now Bodie had lost him.

     "What happened? What usually happens," he snapped back, stung by his failure. "You think I lost him on purpose, Doyle? There's such a thing as circumstance. Random bad luck." His jaw clenched and then he shrugged. "A trolley came along at the wrong time. Cut me off as he was going into the Tube."

     "Well, that's just great. We _need_ MacDiarmada—"

     You think I don't know that?" He ground the words out between his teeth.

     "—and maybe if you were thinking with your head these days, instead of your—"

     "Maybe if you were the least little bit of help."

     —prick we wouldn't be having these problems. Jesus, Bodie, are you daft?" Doyle exploded. "The man's a bloody sodding terrorist. And you've gone and climbed into bed with him." Doyle looked disgusted. "I warned you, Bodie. I told you I wouldn't stand for you going soft on me."

     "At least I'm in there, trying to get the job done, Doyle. Gaining his trust." Bodie took off his jacket and flung it across a chair. "If it'd been up to you, Roderick would've put us out on our ear from the start. Antagonizing him at every turn the way you were."

     "Better than sniffing up to him, like a dog in heat."

     "And what does it matter to you how I do it, as long as he thinks we're on his side? Hasn't got anything to do with you." He sneered. "Better be careful, mate—the way you're going on, someone might think you were jealous."

     Doyle coloured. "Listen, I don't give a damn—"

     "Yeah, yeah, you don't give a damn what I get up to," Bodie said, riding roughshod over his objection. "Except when I get up to it, you can't stand it, can you?" He advanced on Doyle, got right in his face, backing him right up against the wall. "So who does that make the dog here, eh, Doyle?" He leaned closer, putting a hand on either side of Doyle's head, his lips skimming Doyle's ear as he whispered. "You tell me that."

     Doyle opened his mouth to reply, but Bodie didn't give him the chance to say anything. He was twisted up with anger and resentment — at Doyle's rejection, and at himself for creating the situation with Roderick. Pain and shame had produced a tight knot in his chest, and the rage and the hurt that had been simmering ever since he'd climbed out of Roderick's bed, ever since Doyle had dismissed him so cuttingly in front of Roderick, boiled over. He slammed Doyle back against the wall, hands wrapped around his throat, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his collarbone as he brought his mouth down on his. The muffled sounds of Doyle's indignation reached his ears, but they were belied by the rapid beat of Doyle's heart, racing at the base of his throat where Bodie could feel it, frantic and erratic.

     He pulled his mouth away. "Not interested, are you, Doyle? Doesn't feel that way to me," he whispered silkily, insinuating a thigh between Doyle's and feeling the hard press of his prick. "Feels like you're very interested to me."

    Doyle fisted his hands in Bodie's shirt, pushing at him. "What's the matter, Bodie?" he asked, goading him. "Roderick not enough to satisfy that inflated ego of yours? Maybe you _would_ hump a dog."

     "Ah, ah, ah." Bodie shook his head, tightening his fingers. Doyle swallowed convulsively against his thumbs. "Let's not play any games here, Raymond." He leaned close, whispering in Doyle's ear again. "You spread your legs easily enough last time." He ground his hips against Doyle's, savouring the feel of the knot of heat between Doyle's legs. "Did it turn you on last night, Doyle? Listening to Conor and me?"

     Doyle twisted his head to the side, his mouth forming the word "no", but Bodie grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing his head around and back so that he had to look Bodie in the eye. "You bastard," Doyle swore under his breath. "Get off on this, do you?"

     "Bastard, am I?" He shoved Doyle back again. "Let's not forget perverted and disgusting. Well, let's see how much of a bastard I can be, shall we?" He tightened his hand on Doyle's throat and felt him go still as he slid his other hand down Doyle's body, over his heaving chest and belly and down between his legs. He didn't take his eyes off Doyle, who was looking back at him with dark, angry eyes, filled with heat and fury and just enough fear to make Bodie's pulse beat faster.

     "I'll never forgive you for this." Doyle spat the words out at him.

     He laughed humourlessly, sick at heart. "You're not going to forgive me anyway. So what's it matter, a few more transgressions? Add it to the list of my sins." He unfastened Doyle's jeans, sliding his hand inside to take hold of his prick, thick and hard. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he whispered, watching his eyes grow darker as the pupils dilated and feeling his breath stumble under Bodie's restraining hand. "You want it, don't you?" He stroked him, his grip slow and tight. "You want it." He wanted to break Doyle, crack him open and force him to yield.

     "No—" Doyle moaned as he shook his head, struggling to draw a deep breath, his face dark and flushed.

     "No?" He tightened his hand even more, stroking Doyle's prick and feeling it grow wet under the pressure of his palm. "Doesn't feel like a 'no' to me. Tell you what," he said, reaching further inside Doyle's jeans to cup his balls in his hand, squeezing them gently. "You tell me to stop and I'll let you go, okay?" He leaned forward, dragging wet lips up Doyle's throat and along his cheek, whispering in his ear. "Just tell me to stop and I'll let you go."

     "Bodie—" Doyle's voice was thick with fury and arousal.

     "Just say 'stop'," Bodie whispered, speeding up his hand.

     "Christ. Bodie—" Doyle's voice broke on the name, his hands releasing Bodie's shirt and grabbing his shoulders, his fingers digging into Bodie's arms. He turned his head and met Bodie's mouth, kissing him savagely. His hands shook as he touched Bodie, his shoulders, back, sliding down to his arse, and Doyle moaned, an inchoate, frustrated sound that slid over his tongue and lips and into Bodie's mouth.

     Suddenly he grabbed Bodie by the shoulders, knocking him off balance and wrenching him around, turning the tables and slamming him back into the wall, practically climbing him as he tried to get closer. Bodie groaned. His hold on Doyle's throat had been broken, his hands captured by Doyle and pinned against the wall as Doyle ate at his mouth with kisses. Doyle twisted up against him like a tart, grinding his stiff prick into Bodie's thighs, then pulling back when Bodie tried to increase the friction. Frustrated, aroused, bewildered by the sudden turn of events, Bodie felt a wave of heat sweep over him, setting his heart pounding, and he moaned around Doyle's insistent tongue.

     Doyle was tearing at the fastenings on his trousers, dragging them down over his arse and thighs, and when he pulled them together again Bodie could feel the hard pressure of Doyle's prick against his own. Hands now free, he twisted his fingers in Doyle's hair and jerked his head back so that he could get at his throat, fastening his mouth to the pulse beating there. He felt another moan vibrate against his lips, felt the sharp twist of Doyle's hips, and then he was biting off a cry of release, spilling slick, damp warmth onto Doyle's thighs. Doyle followed him bare seconds later, turning his mouth against Bodie's shoulder to muffle the sound. It was wild and terrible, as if something inside him was being wrenched apart.

     For scant seconds they remained as they were, leaning heavily against each other. Bodie could feel the semen cooling on his belly. Doyle trembled against him, his pulse still racing, his chest heaving as he tried to master his breathing. His head rested against the side of Bodie's throat, and Bodie reached up hesitantly to stroke the soft, springy hair against his chin.

     At the touch of his hand Doyle jerked back, righting himself and pushing away from Bodie. Bodie caught a brief glimpse of his face—pale and tight—and then he turned his back on him, tucking himself into his jeans, his back stiff and unforgiving. Bodie let him go without a word, silently pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning himself up, righting his own clothes.

     Bodie waited for the explosion, the recriminations, the violence of Doyle's anger or the sharp edge of his derision, but there was nothing. After a moment Doyle straightened, holding a hand over his eyes for a brief moment before turning. "Right then. We should finish searching the flat," he said, his voice expressionless. His face was shuttered. "I only got through about half the kitchen."

     "Ray?" Bodie felt raw, stripped naked and hollowed out by the need that still raged inside him. He stepped forward and held out his hand; if it'd been anyone but Doyle, he would've sworn he saw him flinch. "Christ, Ray, I—"He stopped.

     Doyle smiled grimly. "What? You're sorry?"

     "Look," he struggled for words, "I never meant to — "

     "Fuck me?" Doyle laughed. It was an ugly sound. "Seems to me that's exactly what you meant to do, Bodie. Well, you got what you wanted, didn't you. Now leave it."

     "What _I_ wanted?" Anger burned away regret. "What, are we still playing the martyr here, Doyle? I didn't hear you protesting so much once I got my hand on your prick." He snorted. "Guess I'm not the only fucking pervert in this room."

     Doyle went white. "We've still got a job to do," he said, his voice tight. "Best we just get along with that." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the hallway. "I'll take the bedrooms," he said. "You finish in here." And before Bodie knew it he was gone.

     He didn't find anything. Roderick was too good at this. It wasn't just that there weren't any hidden guns or explosives—there wasn't _anything_. Not an odd scrap of paper or a hastily jotted down telephone number. No identification, no books, no pictures, no maps—not even a discarded edition of _The Times_. The food in the cupboards was bought recently and locally.

     He met up with Doyle in the lounge, hoping he had found something. Bodie could see bruises already coming up on Doyle's neck, and he could still feel the sting where Doyle had bitten him.

     "There's bloody nothing," Doyle said, still tense, strung tight as a wire, face twisted with anger. He didn't indicate, by word or touch, that anything had happened between them. "He could disappear tomorrow and we wouldn't be able to figure out anything from what's here in this flat."

     "Well then we'll just have to make sure he doesn't disappear, won't we?" Bodie answered him testily. "Not until we figure things out." He couldn't meet Doyle's eyes.

     "How're we gonna manage that, Bodie? We couldn't even manage a tail on him. Hell, he may Ve already bolted and we won't know it until he doesn't come back. What a cock-up." Doyle put his hands on the back of one of the chairs, then gripped it and lifted it, slamming it down in frustration. "Christ, I hate this fucking assignment."

      Bodie didn't have an answer to that.

     "One of us needs to check in with Sally," Doyle finally said, breaking the uneasy silence with a sigh. "I was gonna say she was your bird but— Guess it'll have to be me."

     Bodie flushed guiltily, and then they both turned at the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Roderick came in, carrying a bag from the market. He hesitated when he saw the two of them, as if picking up on the atmosphere in the room, and Bodie purposefully relaxed his stance, trying to negate any appearance of conflict. He knew Doyle was doing the same, but then he realised that whatever was bothering Roderick, it wasn't them. He looked — guilty almost. Edgy. He nodded shortly to both of them as he passed them and went over to the table, where he set down the bag.

     "Conor? Bad news, mate?" Bodie asked, his mind racing. Roderick didn't look suspicious exactly. He certainly didn't look angry, the way he would if he'd just discovered who and what the two of them really were. But there was something, something not right.

     "No." Roderick straightened and slipped his hands into his pockets before he turned to face them. "Good news, actually—we're right on schedule." He sounded almost normal, but there was a false note in his voice.

     "Not that we know what the schedule is," Doyle pointed out.

     Roderick's mouth tightened. "You'll be told, Doyle" he responded testily. "When the time is right."

     "And when exactly is that gonna be? I like to know what I'm gonna be asked to do," Doyle pressed him.

     "What do you care, so long as you get your money?" Roderick threw Doyle's words back at him.

     "Yeah, well, I haven't seen any yet, mate," Doyle countered coolly. His eyes flickered over to Bodie, acknowledged his suspicions, and then swung back towards Roderick again. "Seems to me there's been quite a lot of promises made here, and not much follow through. A man could get the impression you're trying to take advantage of him."

     "You'll get your money. You'll get it tomorrow. Half anyway." Roderick looked over at Bodie. "I'm taking you to meet the man in charge tomorrow."

     Doyle stepped forward and crossed his arms. "And exactly who might that be?"

     Roderick shook his head. "You'll find that out tomorrow as well."

     Doyle rolled his eyes disgustedly. "Right." He went over to the door and pulled his jacket off the hook. "I'm going out."

     Roderick moved quickly between him and the door, and now Bodie could see he did look suspicious. "Going out where?"

     "What's it to you? I'm meeting a bird." Doyle tossed a glance at Bodie before looking back at Roderick. "I realise the concept's a bit foreign to the two of you."

      Roderick looked at Bodie. "What bird? Have you met her?" he demanded.

     "Here now, I wasn't asking your permission," Doyle snapped. He pointed a finger at Roderick. "You hired me. You don't own me."

     "I've met her," Bodie said, intervening. He painted a leer on his face. "She's fine. Barmaid." He gestured with his hands. "Big tits, small mind. Let him go, Conor. Might be she'll give him a good ride; file the rough edges off of him. Make him easier to live with."

     Doyle shrugged into his jacket. His eyes were unreadable. "Sod off, Bodie." He slammed the door on his way out. Bodie felt the tension drain out of him as the smile faded from his face.

     Roderick frowned at Doyle's exit for a moment and then went into the kitchen, bringing back a couple of cans of lager. He offered one to Bodie and opened his, drinking down half of it before he set it aside.

     "You sure nothing happened? You don't look happy, Conor," Bodie said, opening up his own can. Something was up. Something was off. It felt like a litany in his head.

     "Don't I?" Roderick started unpacking the bag. "Suspect I'm tired, is all. Be glad when this is all over. Fish or pie for supper?" he asked, holding up two wrapped packages.

     "Fish," Bodie finally said. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

 

RODERICK TOOK HIM TO BED ALMOST AS soon as they were done with the fried cod and beans, and they spent the next two hours fucking feverishly against the threadbare sheets of Roderick's bed. Bodie closed his eyes and tried to forget the memory of Doyle's hands on him, tried to concentrate on nothing but the feel of Roderick under his own, and the hard prick in his mouth and in his arse.

     After they were done and dressed again, sitting back at the table in the lounge, Roderick opened a new bottle of whisky, and Bodie watched him toss back two drinks before he'd even finished his first.

     "What happened today, Conor?" Bodie asked. "And don't try to shuffle me off with 'nothing'. You're forgetting —I know you too well."

     "It is nothing, Bodie." Roderick reached across the table and touched his hand, looking down at the bruises that discoloured Bodies knuckles. "Nothing we can't get past leastways. Job's getting close and I guess — " He shook his head. "Nothing. You'll know everything tomorrow." He gave Bodie's hand a pat and sat back. "Have you thought about what you'll do after the job?"

     Bodie shrugged. "You know me," he said carelessly. "Never think that far in advance."

     "You're still thinking of moving on then?" Roderick picked at the label on the whisky bottle with his thumb, not looking at him. "With Doyle?"

     Chances were, after this assignment Doyle would be moving on, demanding a change in partners. He would get as far away from Bodie as he possibly could.

     "We're partners, Conor. Told you that from the beginning."

     "Yeah. Yeah, you did." Roderick sighed. He poured himself another drink, sat forward and rested his arms on the table. "But that was before you had other options, now, wasn't it?"

     "Other options?"

     Roderick shook his head. "Don't play me, Bodie. You know what I mean. You must," He finally met Bodie's eyes. "Come back with me."

     Fucking bloody hell. "Conor—"

     "I need you, Bodie. I'm going to need you in more ways than one, after this is over. Look, there's a lot I can't tell you yet, but the man you'll meet tomorrow? His health is failing. This is his last job. When we get back to Belfast I'll be taking his place. I'll want a strong man at my side, someone I can trust. You could be that man, Bodie. You know you could, if you wanted it." He touched Bodie's hand again. "You've got to know how much I want it."

     "This is all a bit impulsive, isn't it?" he tried to joke. It was late. He was tired, and his heart ached.

     "It isn't anything I haven't thought about. Not just since yesterday but for years, Bodie, for years. For years I've imagined what it would be like to have you there with me."

     "Years, then. Now there's the problem, isn't it? Too many years. It's too late, Conor." Bodie shook his head. It was too late for a lot of things. Doyle. Him. Certainly Roderick. Should have been easy to paste a smile on his face and promise Conor whatever he wanted, but he couldn't manage it. Not tonight. "Too much time has passed. Too much has happened."

     "It's not too late" Roderick insisted. "We could be together, the way we always intended to be, Bodie. Fighting for something we both care about—"

     "It's not my war you're fighting," Bodie argued, putting him off.

     "It could be. With time" His voice deepened, turned insistent. "Come back with me, Bodie."

     "And what about Doyle? What do you propose to do about him?"

     "Would it be so hard to leave him?" Roderick asked in disbelief. "The man clearly doesn't respect you—"

     Bodie refused to listen to this. He began to rise out of his chair.

     "Goddamn it, man," Roderick grabbed his arm, held him down, "you must see that he isn't your friend. Not a true friend. All right, yes, I can accept that there is some mutual advantage to both of you in your arrangement, but it's not friendship, not genuine friendship anyway. I can offer that, Bodie—the lads we would be working with would risk their lives for you, for me, for us."

      Bodie wrenched his arm away. Roderick's words stung, falling too close to the fault lines in his partnership with Doyle. "Look, Conor, I—" Roderick's fingers touched his face, asking for his silence.

     "Don't decide now," Roderick murmured. "Give us some time together. Give us the next few days before you say no," he said, and suddenly he was out of his chair and leaning over Bodie, kissing him. There was nothing in his touch to remind him of Doyle's earlier kisses, the hungry, desperate way Doyle had taken his mouth. Kisses more full of anger than any gentler feeling. Roderick's mouth was fervent, ardent and tender, trying to persuade, to seduce. And yet Bodie couldn't get the memory of Doyle out of his head—eyes flashing with fury, eating and biting at him, as if he couldn't get close enough. If he tried, he could imagine he still tasted him.

     "Bodie, sweet Jesus, Bodie." Roderick was tugging at his clothing, opening his shirt, and Bodie was dragged back into the moment as Roderick dropped to his knees, wrapping his hands around the back of Bodie's neck and resting his forehead against his. "Dear sweet Jesus, man, you've got no idea how much—"

     "Pretty shoddy operation if you can't even remember to lock the damn—"

     Bodie jerked back from Roderick, twisting around to see Doyle standing in the doorway, staring. He saw Doyle's eyes take in the two of them, Roderick down on the floor, his hands caught up in Bodie's hair and the collar of his shirt, flushed, his mouth swollen and wet. It didn't take a great deal of imagination to realise what he looked like, shirt undone and hair askew. Both of them still reeking of sex.

     "Doyle." Roderick rose defiantly, his hand tightening possessively on Bodie's shoulder. Doyle's eyes flickered briefly at the gesture, and the lines around his mouth deepened. He looked at Bodie, his eyes searching, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking—his own were unyielding, dark and impenetrable.

     "Sorry," Doyle said finally, breaking the strained silence. His voice was cool, even. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

     Roderick squeezed Bodie's shoulder again, then retreated to the table and sat down, crossing his ankle over his knee, slouching into the chair. "You're back early," he said, matching Doyle's tone. "Not so warm a welcome as you'd hoped?"

     Doyle shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one hip to the other, his eyes still fixed on Bodie. "Was all right. Just tired, I guess." He looked briefly at Roderick, then gave Bodie another keen look. "Guess I'll take myself off then." He nodded to them both and disappeared down the hall to his room.

     "Looks like you were right," Roderick said, finally relaxing, clearly amused and faintly astonished. "Seems he did lose a couple of those rough edges tonight. Let's hear it for a good tumble."

     Bodie nodded and accepted another glass of whisky, downing it to wet a suddenly parched throat. But he couldn't get the image of Doyle's face out of his head, wiped clean of any emotion. Except for the piercing look in his eyes.

    

THEY WENT BACK TO BED AROUND MIDNIGHT but didn't have sex again. Roderick was restless and tossed and turned for a while before he finally slipped into sleep. Bodie lay silently beside him, from all appearances asleep from the moment his head hit the pillow.

     He didn't like this. Something had gone sideways between the time Roderick left and the time he'd returned; the very fact that he wouldn't talk to Bodie about it was evidence that it had something to do with him and Doyle, and that it couldn't be good. It wasn't as bad as being found out—if that were the case, he and Doyle would already have bullets in their heads, and Cowley would be dragging the Thames to find what was left of them. But something was bothering Roderick, something that had to do with them, and he didn't like this not knowing, this waiting for the hammer to fall.

     Doyle was still awake, too. He could hear him on the other side of the wall, pacing. Twice across the floor, back and forth, and then a pause as Doyle probably stood staring out his window, down to the street below. Then the pacing would start again, up and back, over and over.

     Eventually Roderick's breathing evened out and a quiet snore rumbled its way up from deep inside his chest. Bodie tried to ease himself carefully out of the bed.

     The bed squeaked. "Bodie?" Roderick's voice was sleepy, slurred.

     Shit. Bodie leaned over him. "Go back to sleep," he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. "Just a case of the old insomnia."

     Roderick rolled towards him. "You want to talk for a while?"

     "Nah. No point in both of us losing sleep. I'm just gonna make a cuppa, calm the nerves." Bodie kissed him again. "Just go back to sleep."

     Roderick caught his hand. "Don't worry, Bodie. It's going to be fine."

     Bodie looked into his eyes. There was a battle raging in them, something he was desperately trying to hide from Bodie. "Sure it will, mate. Everything's going to be fine, just fine. Go back to sleep," he repeated for a third time. He watched Roderick fight sleep but lose, his fatigue finally greater than whatever it was that was bedevilling him. His eyes closed, and Bodie waited for his breathing to deepen again before he left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

     Through the wall, he heard Doyle pause mid-step, but he was still surprised when moments later Doyle joined him in the kitchen. He felt awkward, not knowing what to say, whether he should still try to apologise for earlier or whether that would just make everything worse. Finally he settled on saying nothing, and merely held up a second cup in inquiry. Doyle nodded, sinking into a chair as he ran his hands through his hair. He had apparently got as far as getting ready for bed, even if he'd never made it there, and his chest and arms were bare above the thin pyjama trousers he wore. There were bruises on his upper arms, the size and shape of Bodie's fingers, and his eye was healing, but his face was drawn, pale and strained. Bodie looked away— ragged as he was, he made Bodie's heart ache.

     "Ray—" he began.

     "Don't." Doyle was quiet for a moment. "Roderick asleep?" he asked, voice barely a whisper,

     Bodie nodded, his eyes fixed on the kettle. Was the damn thing ever going to boil?

     "He say anything?"

     "Nothing. But something's up." The kettle began to hiss and he prepared the tea, glad of something to do with his hands. Doyle was drumming his fingers softly against the tabletop, a quiet, restless sound.

     "Any ideas?" Doyle pressed, sounding slightly impatient.

     "No. Except that he doesn't know everything or we'd be dead already." Bodie turned back to the table and set a steaming cup in front of him.

     Doyle picked it up and took a tentative sip, careful of the hot liquid. "Well, that's something," he said finally with a crooked smile. Bodie smiled a little in response, relaxing a bit, and they sat silently drinking their tea.

     "Another cup?" he asked, reaching for Doyle's mug. His fingers brushed against Doyle's accidentally and Doyle flinched, pulling his hand back. The mug tipped over, spilling the dregs of his tea onto the table. Doyle stood up quickly. He looked at Bodie mutely, and then shook his head violently and walked away, back to his room. Bodie cleaned up the kitchen and went back to bed.

 

IT RAINED BEFORE DAWN, LEAVING THE DAY overcast and grey. It was clear Roderick's apprehension was still there come morning, although it was a quiet tension, evident more from an obviously controlled stillness than from any outward demonstration of anxiety. Doyle looked as though he hadn't got any sleep again. Bodie cooked, sausages and beans over fried bread, but the restlessness was contagious, and none of them ate even half of what was on their plates.

     "So how does this work?" Bodie finally asked, picking up his plate and dumping the uneaten contents in the bin. "We go to him or he comes to us—?"

     Roderick looked away from the window, where he'd stationed himself next to the break in the curtains.

     "We go to him." He looked from Bodie to Doyle. "As soon as our transport gets here."

     "I thought you said it was just the four of us," Doyle challenged him. "Me and Bodie, and you and Mr X."

      Roderick ignored him and went back to the window. Doyle shot a look at Bodie, who lifted his shoulders in a small shrug.

     Doyle cleared the rest of the table silently. He'd put on his gun first thing that morning, had come out wearing it. Bodie found himself wishing he'd done the same, wondering if it would draw too much attention to put it on now or if he should wait until just before they left. He could see Roderick shifting again out of the corner of his eye, and he stifled the urge to pay too much attention to his movements.

     Suddenly Roderick straightened and pulled the curtain closed. "Right then—let's move."

     Doyle went for his jacket. Bodie lifted his holster off the back of the chair.

     "No." Roderick held out his hand. "Guns stay. Don't worry," he said to Doyle, who had stopped short, putting his hand instinctively over the weapon under his arm, "you'll get them back later."

     "Don't like this," Doyle said to Roderick. He turned to Bodie. "Don't like this at all, mate."

     "The man I'm taking you to see didn't live this long by taking stupid chances." Roderick's hand was still out. He looked, as always, to Bodie for the decision. "This is non-negotiable."

     "Give him your gun, Doyle." Bodies jaw tightened. He didn't like this any more than Doyle, but there wasn't much they could do except play along. He held out his own holster and gun and watched Roderick tuck it away in a drawer. After a moment Doyle handed his over as well, and it was tucked away just as neatly. They put on their coats, and Roderick led the way out of the apartment, closing and locking the door behind them.

     Roderick motioned for them to go first, and they headed down the stairs, Doyle in front, Bodie right behind him. On the third floor they had to hug the wall as a woman squeezed by them with two crying children and several bags from the market. At the ground floor Doyle turned towards the front door but stopped when Roderick put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Roderick led them down a side hallway, towards the back of the building, where he stopped just inside the back door.

     They stood motionless in the darkened hallway until there was a light tap on the door. Roderick stepped forward and opened it, and Bodie could just see closely cropped blond hair as Roderick spoke quietly to whoever it was before he turned and motioned to them to follow him.

     They stepped out into the alley, cool and damp from the early morning rain. There was a van, plain, white, nondescript. A man climbed out of the passenger side and opened up the back, stepping aside to wait while Roderick finished his conversation. Bodie could see that the interior of the van was set up with two long bench seats running along the sides and a ratty bit of carpet covering the floor. There were no windows.

      Discussion over, the blond bloke opened the door and slid into the driver s seat. "After you," Roderick said, turning back to him and Doyle, gesturing towards the open doors. With a quick glance at Doyle, Bodie climbed inside. Doyle followed him, and they settled themselves onto one of the seats. The other man got in after them, sitting on the bench directly across from theirs, and Roderick followed, taking up a position beside him.

     "Elegant," Bodie commented, deadpan. Roderick gave him a fleeting smile, but the other man scowled. The driver started the van and edged his way out of the alley and onto the street, turning right.

     Roderick turned to the man next to him. "Eddie." Eddie pulled a carryall out from under the bench and produced a couple of scarves, which he passed to Bodie and Doyle.

     "Put those on," Roderick said. "And make them tight-Eddie is going to check them."

     Doyle frowned. "Now wait just a minute here, Roderick—"

     "Is this a double-cross, Conor?" Bodie demanded. He had a vision of him and Doyle, face down in an alley someplace, a single bullet to the back of their heads.

     "It's not a double-cross. Just security precautions." Roderick nodded towards the scarves. "Put them on."

     Bodie set his jaw, but wrapped one of the scarves around his head, over his eyes, tying a knot with quick, abrupt motions. His elbow bumped Doyle's one or twice as Doyle tied his own scarf, and then he dropped his hands back into his lap. "Okay, now what?"

     He heard Eddie get off his bench and realised he was kneeling down in front of them—a bit unsteadily with the rocking of the van. He felt fingers skimming along the edge of his blindfold, checking the fit, the density. Then he heard the clink of metal, and Eddie was closing a handcuff around one of his wrists.

     "Roderick—"

     "It's just for the ride, Bodie." Roderick's voice was calm, disembodied. "Just until we get there." The second cuff closed around his other wrist, and it was instinct to test the strength, to clench his fists and pull the short chain taut. He could feel the tension radiating off Doyle, and imagined Doyle could feel pretty much the same from him.

     There were more sounds, Roderick or Eddie settling on the bench, the rasp of a zip and the unmistakable snap of a clip sliding into an automatic. There was no talking among Roderick, Eddie, and the driver—most likely by design. Bodie wasn't expecting any chatter.

     At some point the rain started up again; Bodie could hear the faint drumming on the roof and the wet slap of the wipers, an occasional splash when the van hit a puddle. He tried to concentrate—he knew they'd started out going east, but as time passed and the van kept moving, turning, north and then west and then east and then south again, he realised with resignation that they were being driven around in circles, the driver throwing off their sense of direction with all the turns and detours.

     Eventually, their course evened out, the turns got less frequent. By then it was impossible to tell where they were, but he thought probably somewhere still in London. He could still hear the city, the noises and the traffic. The road got rougher, but it was still paved.

     Finally the van turned into a drive, or down a narrow street—Bodie couldn't tell In any case, the van slowed almost to a crawl and then made a couple of short stops before it halted completely and the engine was turned off.

     Bodie lifted his hands to his face. "Not yet," Roderick said. There was some shuffling as Eddie squeezed past them to the doors, and then he could feel the cool air on his face again.

     "Watch your step," Roderick said, taking Bodie by the arm and helping him over to the edge of the van. Eddie's hand gripped him from the outside, and he took the long step down to the ground. Doyle was right behind, and their shoulders brushed as he climbed down next to Bodie.

     It was a short walk to wherever they were going, on a broken concrete walkway. Someone—Roderick maybe — knocked sharply on a door or gate, and a bolt was thrown back. The hinges must have been rusty; they groaned with the strain as the door was opened. Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they were led across the floor, and Bodie heard Doyle stumble and then swear, "Lay off, you bastard."

     "Eddie." Bodie cocked his head. A new voice. "Bring them over here."

     Bodie was pushed and shuffled a few more feet, and then they stopped. "You may take off the blindfolds now—no, no, not the restraints. Not just yet."

     His hair had got tangled up in the knot, and with Eddie's rough handling Bodie was pretty sure he lost a few strands as the blindfold was removed. The first thing he saw was Doyle, looking mutinous, and then Eddie shoved him around roughly and he could look about and see where they were.

     It was a warehouse, dank and empty. Brick walls, concrete floor, with four pillars set in the middle. The lighting was uneven; dark in the corners and along the walls, brighter in the middle where lamps had been set.

     "Gentlemen." It was MacDiarmada. He was sitting on a camp bed set against the wall, steel-framed, neatly made up with sheets and a grey wool blanket. He looked even frailer than he had in the photographs—a mane of tangled white hair surrounded a thin, drawn face, almost as pale. His features were harsh—his nose thin and his cheekbones sharp —and he gave off an aura of ill health. His clothes hung on his wizened frame, and two canes were tipped against the edge of the mattress, right next to his knee.

     But his eyes were bright and quick-witted. He looked Bodie up and down before he shifted his gaze and did the same to Doyle. "Which of you is Doyle?"

     Doyle stiffened. "I'm Doyle," he said, challenge in his voice.

     MacDiarmada smiled. "I understand you're an impatient lad."

     "I like to know what I'm getting into," Doyle said, lifting his chin.

     "Hmm. Yes." MacDiarmada turned to Bodie. "That must make you Bodie."

     "Yes, sir."

     "Sir." MacDiarmada laughed, a gurgling kind of sound that disintegrated into a hacking cough. "Sir," he said again, when he got his voice back. He smiled at Roderick. "Very smooth, Conor. Very smooth."

     "Bodie's a good man," Roderick said. "Like I said."

     "Yes, so you did. Good at what, is the question."

     "Speaking of questions." It occurred to Bodie that only Doyle could look so insolent in a pair of shackles. "Who are you?"

     MacDiarmada eyes sharpened as they focused on Doyle again. "Softly, lad." He turned to Roderick. "Get me a glass of water, would you, Conor?" Roderick nodded and went over to the makeshift kitchen, a sink and some cupboards set against the wall. There he filled a glass with water from a jug in a small refrigerator tucked in next to the sink. He opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of pills, shaking a few into his hand. He delivered them to MacDiarmada along with the water.

     "I don't need—"

     "Take them," Roderick said, pressing them into MacDiarmada's hand. "We'll get far, won't we, if you pitch over dead in the middle of all this."

     MacDiarmada looked over Roderick's shoulder at them and winked. "Thinks he's my nursemaid now, doesn't he?" he asked wryly, but he took the pills in a hand that shook and swallowed them with the water.

     "That's better then," he said, handing the empty glass back to Roderick. He looked over at the two men who had transported them there. "Eddie, Sean—take yourselves off for a bit. I want to talk to these gentlemen alone."

     Eddie and Sean nodded and left without protest.

     "Pull up a couple of chairs, Conor. Let's have a bit of a chat with Mr Bodie and Mr Doyle." Roderick dragged over three chairs from a card table set up in the corner; like everything else in the makeshift dwelling, they were shop-worn and looked like they'd been rescued from the nearest surplus shop. Bodie settled carefully onto his. Doyle did the same, letting his shackled hands dangle loosely between his knees.

     "So let's begin with a bit of honesty between thieves, shall we?" MacDiarmada's eyes turned hard, frosty as the wind sneaking in through the badly fitting windows. "There's no need for you to know who I am. You are here to do what you are told, and if you can successfully accomplish that you will be well paid. We are none of us gentlemen or heroes. And I'm not impressed by men whose loyalty can be bought for the price of a few pounds."

     "Rather more than a few," Doyle corrected him.

     "Yes, Mr Doyle. I've been advised of your concerns regarding payment for your services. We'll take up that question as soon as I've decided whether you'll be walking out of here alive."

     The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches, squeezing out all the air. Bodie turned his head to look at Roderick, who looked back at him, pale and tense. "Be all right then, will it, Conor?" he asked bitterly. He'd let himself and Doyle walk into this without protest, relying on Roderick's word when everything else had urged caution. He should have been more careful. He should have refused to give up his gun. He should have told Cowley he could handle this assignment alone, and never risked Doyle's life.

     "I don't trust you, Mr Bodie. Mr Doyle. I have no reason to," MacDiarmada continued. "Conor tells me that he does—at least you, Mr Bodie—and he's not a lad to be easily deceived. Still, I'm an old man with old ways, and there's nothing—not my life, nor yours, nor Conor's—that I wouldn't sacrifice for our success. I'd bring this place down around all our ears before I'd let anything endanger what I'm here to do."

     "And that would be?" Doyle asked. "Roderick here's been a close-mouthed bastard about what it is you're hiring us to do.

     "We'll get to that, too, Mr Doyle. In time. First—"

     "First you're going to decide whether or not to blow our brains out," Bodie said grimly.

     "That's right, lad."

     "And just how are you going to decide?" Doyle challenged him. "Exactly how are we supposed to prove ourselves? It's not like what we do comes with credentials. Letters of recommendation are a bit dangerous in our line of work."

     "Martell vouched for them," Roderick spoke up.

     "Mr Martell would sell his mother to brigands and then short-change them on the goods. His word is not without some value, but it's far from a ringing endorsement."

     "So how are you going to decide?" Doyle asked again.

     "It is a dilemma, is it not?" MacDiarmada looked calmly back at Doyle, and then over at Bodie, his eyes narrowing. "Come, Conor will make us a pot of tea and we'll talk. I'll ask you some questions, and if I think you're giving me honest answers, then perhaps we can do business."

     "And how will you know if our answers are honest?"

     "Well, now, I'll be relying on my own good sense and the wit God gave me, won't I?"

     Doyle clenched his fists and pulled his shackles taut. "And if your sense has fled and God made you witless?"

     "Then it's an apology you'll be due when we meet up in heaven, won't you?" MacDiarmada sat back and sipped his tea. "Let's begin with you, Mr Bodie. Tell me a bit about yourself."

 

AS THEY TALKED, IT SOON BECAME CLEAR that MacDiarmada had no specific reason to doubt their authenticity and that he was more interested in weighing their character than in any of their purported accomplishments. His questions were wide-ranging, sometimes general and sometimes incisive as a scalpel, but Bodie soon realised it was more important how he answered than exactly what he said, and he worked at keeping his responses quick, direct, and as artless as he could manage under the circumstances. Doyle did the same, although the old bastard seemed to take to him a lot more quickly than he did to Bodie.

     At last MacDiarmada gathered up his canes and levered himself to his feet, with Roderick quick to provide a supporting arm. He looked down at both of them and seemed to consider. His eyes narrowed when he looked at Bodie, but he nodded, and then hobbled his way over to the last chair at the table. "They'll do for now. Take off their bracelets, Conor, and bring us all some whisky."

     Roderick came over to Bodie and dug a key out of his trouser pocket. "I told you it would be all right," he said with a grin. He grasped Bodie's arm tightly and squeezed; Bodie could see MacDiarmada watching them over Roderick's shoulder, his gaze sharp. It was several seconds before he looked away.

     Roderick passed him the key. "Here, take care of him," he said, nodding at Doyle.

     Bodie turned to Doyle. Doyle was looking up at him, watching him and Roderick. For a moment all Bodie could think was that they were alive, that they had survived, and then Doyle stood, holding out his hands. Only someone standing as close as Bodie could have seen that they were shaking, his knuckles white. Bodie fumbled a bit with the key, giving them a few extra seconds. "What?" he asked, his question barely a whisper.

     "He doesn't like you. This isn't over," Doyle warned, as if he could sense Bodie's relief and needed to bring him down. He rubbed his wrists. "He's not done with us."

     "No," Bodie agreed, a bit indignant. He wasn't stupid after all. "But—"

     "Mr Bodie? Mr Doyle? Shall you be joining us?"

     Bodie exchanged another glance with Doyle and felt the fleeting press of his hand on Bodie's forearm. Almost exactly where Roderick had touched him.

     "I'm still waiting for the part of this conversation where we talk about what it is we've been hired to do," Doyle said, tucking his hands into his back pockets and turning to look at both MacDiarmada and Roderick. "And where I see some money."

     MacDiarmada smiled. "You are impudent, Mr Doyle. Although I can't decide if you're fearless or foolish." He looked over at Roderick. "You have it ready?" Roderick reached into his jacket and took out two large envelopes, thick with their contents, and passed them to MacDiarmada, who held them out to them. Bodie looked at Doyle, and together they walked over and took the envelopes, opening them and looking inside. Bodie guessed there was close to five thousand pounds in his, in used twenty and fifty pound notes.

     "I trust everything's in order?" MacDiarmada asked, with a bit of false politeness.

     "Looks that way," Doyle conceded. He stuffed the envelope into a jacket pocket and then went back for their chairs, pulling them up to the table. "All right, then" he continued, sitting down, "what about the job?"

     MacDiarmada studied Doyle for another moment and then leaned back in his chair, settling one of his legs more comfortably. "How much do you know about 'sleeper bombs'?"

     Doyle exchanged a glance with Bodie. "Enough."

     "And what might 'enough' be?"

     Doyle leaned back in turn, to all appearances indifferent. "I know—we know," he clarified, with a jerk of his head towards Bodie, "how to make them. Plant them." He paused. "I generally leave flipping the switch to someone who gives more of a damn than I do."

     MacDiarmada laughed, a full laugh from his belly this time, and it brought some of the colour back into his cheeks. "I like your Mr Doyle, Conor. Better than you do, I think. He doesn't trust us and he doesn't give a damn. He knows we don't trust him and he doesn't give much of a damn about that either." He nodded. "Yes, I think you may do well, Mr Doyle."

     "Gee, thanks," Doyle said.

     MacDiarmada chuckled again. "Right, then. You're familiar with them. You know how to construct them— that's good."

     "So it will be a bombing?" Bodie asked.

     "Several bombings," Roderick replied. He looked at MacDiarmada, who nodded. "Several simultaneous bombings, set in and around London."

     Doyle crossed his arms. "Targets?"

     "The Prime Minister and members of her Cabinet."

     Bodie whistled. "You don't aim low," he said to MacDiarmada.

     "We should have held out for more money."

     "Very likely, Mr Doyle." MacDiarmada reached into his pocket and took out a pipe and a bag of tobacco. Roderick drew a breath to protest but MacDiarmada waved him off. "Don't go making a fuss, Conor. It's not as if it makes much difference at this stage now, does it?" He looked at Bodie and Doyle. "You don't mind, I gather?"

     They both shook their heads. MacDiarmada began speaking again as he packed the pipe. "The thing is, we've run into a bit of a difficulty. We came over with two other lads, trained in this sort of thing. Good lads, too."

     "So where are they?" asked Doyle, making a show of looking around the room.

      "We lost them." MacDiarmada glowered. "They'd just picked up a shipment of arms. Were in the process of transporting them to our carrier when they were apprehended by several overzealous agents of Her Majesty's government."

     "Someone's tumbled to this?" Doyle looked over at Roderick. "This wasn't information worth sharing with the hired help?"

     MacDiarmada held up a hand. "It's fine. That job had nothing to do with this one—it was a separate enterprise. And anyway, Mr Doyle, they were both killed. There was no opportunity for them to talk."

     "Compassionate bastard, aren't you?" Bodie said.

     "I'm fighting a war, Mr Bodie. I haven't got time to stop and weep over the casualties." There was another pause as MacDiarmada lit his pipe, the sweet smell of the tobacco filling the air. "The critical issue here is that—in addition to the guns we lost—we lost the C4 we need to construct the bombs."

     Bodie exchanged a look with Doyle. "C4? Isn't that a bit out of your league? I thought you lads specialised in fertilizer."

     MacDiarmada shook his head. "This job requires too much precision. The C4 is what we need."

     "So what are we here for then, if you don't have what you need to bring the job off?"

     "We don't have what we need now, Mr Bodie." MacDiarmada paused and took a long draw on his pipe before he continued. "That doesn't mean we can't get it."

     "Oh, yeah?" Doyle looked at Roderick. "I suppose you've got some bright idea."

     "Yes." Roderick leaned forward in his chair. "Nineteenth Division's got C4 in their armoury. With three good men, we can go in with a minimum of fuss and bring out what we need."

     "Now wait just a minute here—we didn't sign on to take on the fucking army," Doyle began, rising out of his chair.

     "Sit down." MacDiarmada's voice was sharp. "If I understand the situation correctly, Mr Doyle, you signed on without knowing anything at all about the job, so don't get sanctimonious on us now. You're taking on the entire British government. What does it matter if you take on a bit of the army first?"

     Doyle sank back down into his chair, his face sullen.

     "You've got a plan." Bodie said to Roderick.

     Roderick nodded. "Yes. We're waiting for a night with no moon and plenty of cloud cover. We can park down the road from the installation, out of sight, and go in over the fence. We can carry out what we need in a couple of carryalls."

     "We'll want to see the plans," Doyle insisted. "Before we agree."

     "Of course." Roderick dismissed him with a glance and looked at Bodie. "Your input would be welcome. The less suspicion we arouse, the better."

      "Excellent. Are we agreed then, gentlemen? Mr Bodie? Mr Doyle?" MacDiarmada watched them intently, his weathered face wreathed in pipe smoke.

     Bodie looked over at Doyle and then back at MacDiarmada. He nodded once, a sharp, quick incline of his head. "We're agreed."

 

THE JOURNEY BACK WAS MADE IN MUCH the same manner. Eddie and his partner seemed to appear from nowhere, and Bodie and Doyle were once again blindfolded and shackled. When they were released in the alley behind Roderick's flat, Bodie realised it was a different van this time, different colour. MacDiarrnada's security was well organised.

     Back inside the flat Doyle excused himself almost immediately to change his clothes, making a show of asking Roderick's permission to "go see his bird". Roderick shook his head in exasperation and dismissed him with a wave of his hand, sinking into a chair with a heavy sigh. Bodie opened a can of lager and stood drinking it at the worktop, watching as Roderick scrubbed his face with his hands.

     "Tired?" he asked.

     "Bone tired," was Roderick's reply, and then he smiled at Bodie. "Glad that's over."

     "Yes," Bodie answered, his voice clipped. "Nice that it worked out all around, isn't it?"

     Roderick sobered. "I couldn't warn you, Bodie. You must see that."

     "I'm off." Doyle came back into the room, changed and pulling on his jacket. He would pass on word through Sally, of course. "Leave the door open for me," he said to Roderick, before slamming his way out.

     "Can't say I'll be sad to see the back of him," Roderick sighed, after throwing the bolt behind him.

     "Even if it means seeing the back of me?"

     Roderick shook his head, "You promised you wouldn't make a decision too soon."

     "That was before you walked me blindfolded in front of a man who would've had no qualms about shooting my head off if he decided he didn't like the cut of my clothes."

     "I knew you could pass any test he came up with."

     "That's a load of shit, Conor, and you know it. That's what had you tied up in knots last night." Bodie pointed a finger at him. "If he'd decided he didn't like my answers to his questions, or my history, or the colour of my bloody eyes for that matter, he wouldn't have given a second thought to putting a bullet in the back of my head, or Doyle's."

     Roderick was shaking his head. "I wouldn't have let him do that, Bodie."

     "You couldn't have stopped him. Ah, Christ— be honest. You wouldn't have stopped him."

     "I would've. Or I'd've found away to convince him he was wrong." Roderick came up behind him and put his arms around him. "I need you, Bodie. I'm not going to lose you again, now I've found you." He turned to Bodie and lowered his mouth to his.

     Bodie pulled away. "No. Enough of this, Conor. You want me—you say you need me—but you don't trust me. Now that's one thing if I'm hired to do a job and pick up my wage packet when it's all over. It's another thing entirely when someone tells me he wants to be my partner. I expect something different from a partner. Any kind of partner. He watches my back and I watch his."

     "Like Doyle? Don't make me laugh, Bodie. Doyle would sell you out faster—"

     He acted before he even had a chance to think, and the crack of his hand across Roderick's face stopped the rest of the words before they could finish leaving his mouth.

     "He's my partner." Bodie ground out the words. "Watch your mouth, mate."

     Roderick stared at him, hand against his cheek where Bodie had backhanded him. His eyes sparked with anger. "And I'm your lover, you bastard—who are you loyal to, Bodie? Him or me?" Roderick shoved him back against the worktop." V'you got any idea what I risked for you today?"

     "You fed me to the wolves, Conor!"

     "No, no, I would have protected you, Bodie." Roderick leaned his forehead against Bodie's. "I would have protected you, love, I swear it. I swear it. I love you," he whispered against Bodie's mouth before he kissed it, sliding his tongue between his lips.

     Bodie's felt his gut twist. He didn't want Roderick in his arms. He wanted Doyle. Bad-tempered son of a bitch that he was, Bodie wanted him, wanted him in a wave of desire and despair so sudden and so intense that he shook with it.

     Roderick pulled him close, murmuring in his ear and kissing the side of his face. "Come to bed with me, Bodie. Come to bed with me, make love to me, let me make love to you—"

     Bodie closed his eyes and kissed back. He had a part to play.

 

RODERICK FELL ASLEEP ALMOST AS SOON AS they'd finished, and Bodie left him there, naked and damp, tangled in the sheets. In the kitchen he toasted a bit of bread and cheese and sat down at the table, where he ate it without tasting it, washing it down with another can of lager. It was only early evening, and there was no way of knowing when Doyle would be back. Or what their orders would be.

     He retrieved his gun—they'd both demanded them back as soon as they'd returned from MacDiarmada's—and took out the clip and began to clean it. Not that it was dirty—it hadn't been used since they'd hooked up with Roderick—but he needed something to do, something to keep himself occupied, and guns were easy, comfortable. The smell of gun oil soon replaced the smell of Roderick on his hands, and he fell into the rhythm that came with cleaning it, running the rod down the barrel, twisting the patches around inside. It was familiar, methodical work—he could clean a gun in his sleep if he had to —but it gave him something to focus on, something to keep his hands busy with, while he tried to figure out what to do about Doyle.

     He'd made a mess of things—he could see that now. Mostly his fault, he supposed, although Doyle wasn't entirely pure in the matter. But he'd started it; he was the one who had tried to push their friendship in directions Doyle didn't want it to go. Pushed too hard, too fast, and refused to take no for an answer. Demanding something that wasn't his to take, something Doyle wasn't willing to give. No excuse for it, really, except that they'd always been so in sync before, almost since Cowley first teamed them up, and he was used to knowing Doyle's mind. It'd been second nature to assume that if he wanted it, and wanted it as much as he did, then Doyle must want it, too. So he'd acted, expecting a welcome, and when Doyle rejected him he'd refused to accept that and had pushed instead —insisted. And had only succeeded in driving Doyle further away.

     Not that Doyle didn't deserve some of the blame. His rejection still stung, his utter contempt for what Bodie had offered, for who Bodie was. To be ridiculed the way Doyle had done—it wasn't anything he'd ever expected. Even if Doyle didn't want him, he expected respect. Understanding. Instead Doyle had sliced him open with sharp words, gutted him and left him empty and aching.

     Except. Christ. He rubbed the back of a wrist over his eye, trying not to smear oil on his face. He wasn't wrong about the way Doyle responded to him—he'd be damned if he was. The way Doyle came to life in his arms, in his bed. Doyle wanted him—Bodie was as sure of that as he was of his own name. But for whatever reason—and he wasn't sure even Doyle knew—Doyle'd refused him. Afraid of being queer, maybe—whatever the reason, he didn't want, what was on offer. Except when he touched him, Bodie thought cynically, and then he ran hot and cold in a way that could bloody well drive a man to distraction.

     It was a mess, was what it was. A bloody, fucking mess.

     "Bodie?"

     Doyle could move like a cat when he wanted. He stood just inside the flat, one hand fisted in his pocket, watching him. Bodie saw a look cross his face, the look he'd come to expect these days, guarded and cautious. Closed off. It hurt.

     Bodie dropped his hand from his face and forced a smile, reaching for a cloth. "Evening, sunshine," he said, concentrating on his gun, uncomfortably aware that his equilibrium was shaken.

     He heard Doyle slip off his jacket and walk up to the table, where he draped it over a chair. Schooling his face, Bodie looked up.

      "Roderick here?" Doyle asked, looking around cautiously.

     "Yeah. Sleeping," Bodie jerked his head in the direction of the bedrooms. "Expect he'll be up looking for supper soon, though," he warned. Doyle stepped quietly over to the entrance to the hall and cocked an ear, then gestured for Bodie to follow him as he moved back through the lounge to the kitchen. Surprised, Bodie got up and wiped his hands, then followed him.

     They tucked themselves into a corner next to the cooker. "What?" Bodie asked, keeping his voice pitched low and an eye out for Roderick over Doyle's shoulder.

     "I talked to Cowley."

     "You talked to Cowley?"

     Doyle mimicked using an R/T. "Sally can fit quite a bit down that blouse of hers. He'll get word to the Nineteenth about the job. Talk to the Minister. Try to arrange for complete cooperation. Put a few of our mob in to keep watch over the place."

     "Not too many or Roderick will tumble to it."

     "What—you think Cowley's new to this?" Bodie bit back a retort and Doyle continued. "Can't take a chance on tampering with the goods either, so it's a bit of a risk. Orders will be not to go in unless MacDiarmada shows. Still, Cowley doesn't like it."

     "Thought your ears looked a bit singed," Bodie said with a small smile.

     "He's worried MacDiarmada is stringing us along to get the C4, and that once that's done we'll be out on our ear. Or dead in the back of a van. He wants you to press Roderick for more details." Doyle shifted uncomfortably. "He said to tell you to 'play all your cards' with Roderick."

     He stiffened and felt the chill run down his spine. Christ. The wily bastard knew.

     Doyle was watching him closely. "Don't suppose that's going to be much of a problem, is it?"

     "No." He took a breath, pasted on a half-hearted smile. "Hell of a pimp, the old man is, wouldn't you say?"

     Doyle ignored him. "Sure? Things seemed a bit tense earlier," he said, in a voice that failed miserably at being casual.

     Bodie shrugged, his mood turning hard. "Didn't like the show this afternoon, is all. He set us up and I didn't like it. Thought he should know."

     "But now you've patched things up?" Doyle asked. "All happy and domestic again?" His eyes never left Bodie's face.

     "Look, it's not like—"

     Doyle held up his hand and shook his head. "Sorry. Forget it. I'm sure whatever you're doing—" He bit back whatever he was going to say. "I don't need to know, and anyway, it's what Cowley wants—"

     "No listen, Ray, it's not—it's not like that," he insisted. "Look, when this is all over—" He faltered. Doyle was looking at him in the dim light of the kitchen, his face half hidden in the shadows, and it was impossible to read his expression.

     "When this is all over?" Doyle asked, his voice dropping even lower as he took a step closer.

     "When this is all over—" And now he could see deep into Doyle's eyes, and there was still anger in them, and fear, but the fear wasn't directed at him any more. There was something else, too, something too tentative and inchoate to give a name. His voice trailed off again, and he lifted a shaking hand to touch Doyle's face, his cheek; and his blood caught fire as Doyle closed his eyes and turned his cheek into Bodie's hand.

     "Doyle?" He kissed him, barely bringing their lips together and then coming back again, harder, more insistent, more hungry and needy. Doyle's mouth trembled under his, then opened, and he shoved his tongue into Bodie's mouth with an aborted groan. He could taste the lager Doyle must've had earlier at the pub, and chips, oil and salt and vinegar. Doyle strained up against him, and Bodie wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close. For long moments they stood together like that, as he fed hungrily at Doyle's mouth.

     It was heady but dangerous. There was no way to know how long Roderick would sleep, and if he found them like this there would be hell to pay. "Doyle—" he said, his voice rough as gravel. God, this would kill him. "Doyle, we can't—" It was agony, but he forced himself to step back, and then had to close his eyes and shake his head as Doyle swayed forward, eyes hot and gleaming. "We _can't_ ," he said brokenly, opening his eyes and pleading with Doyle. "You know we can't."

     Doyle groaned and turned away, hands gripping the worktop. Bodie fought to bring his breathing under control.

     "So are you in love with him then?" Doyle finally asked.

     " _Roderick_?"

     "Don't know who else we could be talking about."

     He shook his head. "Are you _daft_? Look, it's not about—"

     They both heard it at the same time, the sound of Roderick moving around on the other side of the flat, the sound of the toilet, his footsteps coming back down the hallway, and then, "Bodie?"

     "In here, Conor," he called out, his eyes still locked with Doyle's. "I'll be out in a second." He lowered his voice again. "Doyle—"

     "No, I'm starving. I'll come in there—" Roderick came around the corner and stopped, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Doyle."

     "Roderick." Doyle crossed his arms and turned slowly, leaning back against the worktop insolently, everything about him going hard and mean. "Didn't mean to interrupt your beauty sleep."

     Roderick's jaw tightened. "You didn't." He studied them. "So what's the big conference about?"

      Bodie exchanged a glance with Doyle. "New job," he improvised. "Doyle got a line on something tonight— we were just talking about whether he should follow up on it. He likes the money—"

     "Money's good," Doyle interrupted, picking up on his cue.

     "Yeah, but I don't like the odds." Bodie shrugged. "Anyway, we were talking about it."

     Roderick glanced back and forth between the two of them again before taking another step into the kitchen. "Money's not everything," Roderick said. "You didn't tell him?" he asked Bodie, insinuating himself between the two of them, forcing Doyle to take several steps back.

     "Tell me what?" Doyle demanded, looking at Bodie, his voice gone quiet.

     "Conor—" Goddamn the man and his rotten timing.

     "I've asked Bodie to come back with me." Roderick shifted so that his arm touched Bodie's. Shoulder to shoulder, the manipulative bastard. Bodie watched Doyle's lips turn white around the edges as Roderick took obvious relish in announcing the news. "He's too good a man to waste on mere jobs."

     "I haven't said yes."

     "Apparently you didn't say no, either, or this bloke wouldn't be shoving himself in my face as if the banns were already announced." Doyle's face darkened with anger and he pushed himself off the worktop and turned away. Bodie curled his fingers into a fist to keep himself from reaching out. "You do whatever you want, mate."

     "Doyle — !" But Doyle was gone, and a few seconds later the door to his bedroom slammed shut. Bodie groaned with frustration and pounded his hand against the counter.

     "Let him go." Roderick put a hand on his arm. "It had to be said, Bodie. He'd've had to be told, sooner or later."

     "Assuming a lot, aren't you?" Bodie shook him off. He'd give anything to put his fist to Roderick's face. "Haven't said yes."

     "You will." There was an intensity in Roderick's eyes that made him uneasy. "I've got a feeling about this, Bodie. We got off the track for a while, but that's all in the past now. We're going to be together, have the life we should have had, all those years ago."

 

AFTER COMING THAT CLOSE TO AN EXPLOSION, it seemed to Bodie they all knew to back off a bit. The next several days passed slowly. If MacDiarmada's plans were moving forward, there was no sign of it from Roderick. There were no more trips to see MacDiarmada, and there was no more talk of the plan to raid Nineteenth Division.

     The three of them settled uncomfortably into a routine. Doyle went out the next morning and bought a novel the size of _War and Peace_ , and he spent most of each day slumped in one of the chairs, ostensibly reading, although Bodie could feel his eyes on him all the time, watching every move he made with Roderick. He kept up his charade with Sally, staying out late enough to maintain the illusion that he was courting a bird, but there were no more private moments between them. If there had been an instant when Bodie thought the gulf between them had started to close, it seemed lost now.

     For his part, Roderick seemed less anxious, less preoccupied. He showed Bodie an easy affection that Bodie accepted awkwardly, and talked almost constantly about his plans for their future. More often than not, he dragged Bodie to bed almost as soon as the door closed behind Doyle, as if he were trying to make up for ten years of being apart in a handful of days. Bodie let himself be fucked, tuned out the heated declarations of love, the ragged cries that meant Roderick was lost in his body, but Bodie was always aware of the moment Doyle returned, and couldn't forget that he was on the other side of the bedroom wall, listening.

     Three days after their meeting with MacDiarmada Roderick had taken him to bed as usual. They fucked, Roderick driving into Bodie with a need that forced moan after unwilling moan from Bodie's throat as he held on to the bed, riding out the fury of Roderick's lovemaking. Roderick was asleep now, snoring, and Bodie watched the rise and fall of his chest, thick with blond hair and rumbling with the sounds that meant he was well under. He shifted under the blanket, grimacing at the stickiness on his chest and belly and between his thighs, and the unpleasant feeling of the slick and Roderick's come seeping slowly from his arse, and slid quietly out of the bed, crossing the hall to the loo.

     He closed the door before he switched on the light, bright and glaring from the bare bulb set above the basin. He glanced in the mirror; his face looked pinched, the dark of his emerging beard stark against the paleness of his face. He met his own eyes and looked away—he didn't much like what he saw in them these days.

     He turned on the water, predictably sluggish and cold, a mere drizzle. A fit companion for the flannel, threadbare and straggled. Bodie held it under the water until it was wet and then leaned over the basin, holding the cloth to his face. Although it wouldn't feel good against his raw skin, the cold wetness was balm to his tired eyes, and he propped one hand against the wall, letting the coolness leach away some of the ache. Then, resigned to the discomfort, he wet the flannel again, wringing out the excess water, and reached around himself to begin cleaning his arse and the backs of his thighs.

     The quiet click of the door opening behind him startled him. It was Roderick, no doubt, awake and unhappy to find him gone. He took a deep breath and began to turn when he felt hands at his waist, holding him still, and he caught Doyle's scent. "Ray—?"

      "Shhh." Doyle's voice was barely a whisper, sending a shiver up his spine.

     He held himself still, uncertain. He looked up into the mirror, but all he could see was the top of Doyle's head, his thick curls, and the edge of his shoulder. The hands at his waist moved up to touch his back—gently, lightly, fingertips tracing patterns over his back, dancing down his spine. "Ray—?" His voice was thick, slow, his mouth working awkwardly around the single syllable.

     "Shhh. Need to be still." The whisper skated across his skin as Doyle's hands kept moving over his flesh. There was the smallest of pauses before he felt something brush against his shoulder blade, and he realised it was Doyle's mouth, and the soft scrape of his beard. "He's got you all marked up," Doyle said, quiet voice thin with anger.

     Bodie shook his head. He couldn't see what Doyle was talking about, but it couldn't be more than a few scrapes and bruises, and besides, it didn't matter anyway. Roderick's technique was straightforward and plain, often rough but never mean. Wasn't anything to get bothered about. He shivered again—the night was cold and he was standing bare-arsed naked in a badly heated flat, but the tenderness of Doyle's touch held him frozen in place. Too long since Doyle had touched him without anger; he ached with the need to keep those hands on him.

     "Or was it me did this to you?" Doyle finally asked, voice back to a whisper.

     He shook his head again. "It's nothing," he whispered. "Doesn't hurt."

     He felt the briefest touch of Doyle's mouth against his neck. "And you wouldn't admit it if it did, would you? Ah, Bodie—"

     Doyle's hands slid over his skin with more intent—his touch surer, firmer. Bodie caught his breath as he felt them skim over his flanks, brush fleetingly over his hardening prick and back over the cheeks of his arse. Doyle moved away, and before Bodie could object he felt his fingers, blunt and sure, searching. The tip of Doyle's thumb grazed his hole, and then he gasped as Doyle slid it inside, the way already prepared, loose and slick, from Roderick's fucking.

     "Ray," he whispered, his hands gripping the edge of the basin until his knuckles were white. Doyle's thumb pressed deep, then slid out of him to be replaced by his fingers, two or three, Bodie couldn't tell, filling him up, driving the heat back through his veins. He bit the side of his mouth to trap a groan in his throat and closed his eyes against the bright glare of the light, focused only on the fingers moving slowly in and out of him. They brushed fleetingly over his prostate and his hips jerked, his eyes opening wide, the moan that couldn't be contained smothered by Doyle's other hand, which rose swiftly to cover his mouth.

     Doyle was visible now over his shoulder, his face as tight and pinched as his own, his eyes flashing. Bodie couldn't look away. Doyle's fingers reached deep inside him again, and he arched into the pleasure that seared down his spine, Doyle's eyes watching every reaction. He felt Doyle fumbling behind him, opening his trousers, and then felt the hard press of his prick against the side of his hip and his arse, already wet and smearing a damp streak across his flesh. He fought for a breath, still silenced by Doyle's hand over his mouth, as Doyle's fingers slid out of him with a thick, wet sound, and then Doyle was sliding into him, his wet hand gripping Bodie's thigh hard, his own breathing gone thin and shallow. He felt Doyle's cock slicing into him and he shivered. It was everything he had wanted for so long.

     "Ah, Bodie—" Doyle pulled out and pushed in again, and Bodie felt as though the aged porcelain might crumble under the force of his grip. He wanted to reach back, to touch Doyle, but he felt as if he would come apart under the slow and steady penetration rocking him gently forward and back, and only his relentless grip on the basin was keeping him upright. He looked into Doyle's eyes, reflected back at him in the mirror, trying to read what was in them. Doyle looked away, burying his face against the back of Bodie's neck, but the hand on his hip slid around his waist, holding on tightly, and Bodie could feel the drag of Doyle's lips over his shoulders. "So bloody perfect—"

     He was racked by tremors. His prick was hard and stiff, up against his belly, as if he hadn't been fucked already that night. He swayed with the force of Doyle's thrusts, and he felt dizzy with lack of oxygen and pleasure, giddy with the pleasure, drunk with it. He pulled his mouth away from Doyle's hand, drew a deep, wrenching breath, and whispered, "Ray," his voice ragged and needy, and felt Doyle tremble against him. "Ray," he moaned, his voice rising, cracking, and he wanted to say—everything, he wanted to find the words that would make Doyle see, that would put things right, that would make Doyle his, but Doyle's hand covered his mouth again, two fingers thrusting inside. Bodie groaned and wrapped his tongue around them, sucking hard, and felt Doyle buck against him, driving himself deep.

     "Yes—" Doyle's voice was deep and rough. "Yes, you bastard, you sodding bastard—ah, Christ, _Bodie_ —."

     And it was the sound of his name, whispered furiously into the curve of his neck before Doyle's teeth closed around the muscle in his shoulder and bit hard, that sent Bodie over the edge. He sucked hard on the fingers in his mouth and groaned, and his prick jerked again and again, spitting against the yellowed basin and onto the floor. Doyle's arm tightened around his waist and they writhed together, Bodie caught on the blunt edge of Doyle's need, shoving himself down on the prick inside him until he felt Doyle shudder one final time and collapse against him.

     He felt relief when Doyle finally took his fingers from his mouth, and he leaned his head back, drawing a deep, clean breath. He winced, overused, as Doyle slowly eased out of him, and then relaxed again as he put his arms around Bodie, trapping both his arms at his sides.

     "Ray?"

     Doyle's arms tightened, cushioning the words that next came out of his mouth. "Not now. Roderick could wake up any second." He released Bodie, reaching around him for the damp flannel that had been abandoned in the basin. Bodie shuddered as the cold, wet cloth was swabbed between the cheeks of his arse, over tender flesh, and down the backs of his thighs, wiping away any evidence of their sex. When the flannel was removed Bodie made a move as if to turn, but Doyle caught his arm, holding him. "No. Don't turn around." His voice was strained.

     Bodie listened impatiently as Doyle cleaned himself up. The dirty flannel was tossed back into the basin, and Doyle leaned close again. "Turn off the light as you go. I'll stay here 'til it's quiet."

     "No-"

     "Bodie—"

     "No!" He was still trapped between Doyle and the basin, his whisper filled with anger and an aching hope. "No, dammit, you can't just come in here and _fuck_ me and then—"

     "Like you _fucked_ me?"

     "—and then just send me off to bed like—"

     He never got to finish. Doyle's fingers bit into his arms as he pulled him around, dragging his head down, taking his mouth in a kiss that was hot and searing. Bodie gave himself over to it immediately, hands twisting in Doyle's hair as he held him close. Doyle savaged him, biting his lips, his jaw, his chin, before taking his mouth again.

     The kiss left them breathless, leaning against each other, foreheads pressed together. "Doyle—"

     "Later." Doyle's breath was hot against his cheek. "After it's over."

     "After it's over."

     The room went dark as Doyle switched off the lights, and Bodie made his way back to bed. Roderick muttered softly when he crawled back in, but didn't wake, and Bodie spent the rest of the night lying awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Doyle walking back and forth across the floor, softly.

 

     IT WAS A RELIEF THE NEXT DAY WHEN RODERICK came back with the news that they were ready to move forward with the job. After studying his plan, Bodie even reluctantly conceded that it was good, organised to avoid any contact with the soldiers on duty. To avoid trouble.

     Roderick had the patrols timed out to the second; from beginning to end, the job was scheduled to last thirty minutes. Get in, get what they needed, get out again. They parked the van down the road from the guard post, off to the side and in the trees, and went through the fence, straight across the compound, and into the armoury. Dressed for the part in Army uniforms, they blended in with the few soldiers they encountered. Bodie caught a glimpse of Murphy wearing a corporal's uniform, leaning against the fence and smoking a cigarette. He made eye contact with him briefly, and then Doyle fell into step beside him as they turned the corner and made their way to the back of the armoury.

     They went in through a window, the locks pathetically easy to open and the bars made irrelevant by the determined efforts of a crowbar. Bodie moved carefully following Roderick in, hitching himself up and over the sill, and dropping down into the darkened room with barely a sound. Doyle followed — briefly silhouetted against the window before he came through, landing so close to Bodie that it was instinct to reach out a hand to steady him. Doyle tensed, and Bodie's lungs filled with the scent of the cheap soap on Doyle's skin, now overlaid with fresh sweat, still too new to turn sour. The want rose up inside him so hot and fierce that for a moment he was paralysed by it, unable to move. Then there was an inquiring grunt from Roderick, and he stepped away.

     They spoke in abbreviated whispers, Roderick waved him off towards a stack of boxes in the east corner of the building, while Doyle took another stack closer to the entrance and Roderick searched for the smaller boxes that would contain the C4.

     Their list was short. The C4, of course. A dozen or so handguns—MacDiarmada had added those at the last minute: Webleys or Brownings. Another dozen or so grenades, whatever they could carry easily through the fence. Apparently the other runners were just as reluctant as Marty, and MacDiarmada had decided they should help themselves to what they could from Nineteenth's store.

     Bodie's assignment was handguns, and he quickly located a box and packed twelve into his carryall. Across the room he could see Doyle carefully unloading a half-dozen grenades into his bag. Roderick found the C4 easily enough, and took enough to blow the entire city away.

     Within minutes the bags were full. Doyle went out first, and as Bodie moved close to help him with his bag, hold it until he could pass it through the window, Doyle's eyes met his in a brief, fierce glance. Then Doyle hitched himself up over the ledge, leaning back to take back the bag before he dropped to the ground outside. Bodie passed his bag through and followed him out, Roderick close on his heels. Two minutes later they were through the fence and speeding back towards London.

     They made straight for MacDiarmada, with only a brief stop to transfer Bodie and Doyle to a van, this time painted a dull shade of blue. The plan was to drop off everything with him tonight and then return to the warehouse tomorrow, when they would begin putting together the devices. The other arms, the guns and the grenades, would find their way to Belfast by one surreptitious route or another.

      They were allowed to keep their weapons this time, although Sean and Eddie still insisted on the blindfolds. Clearly they were determined to keep MacDiarmada's location secret from everyone except a chosen few. It was a straighter route this time as well, not as many false turns, and through the din of Roderick's crowing about a job well done, Bodie tried to concentrate on the smells, the sounds, what direction they were taking.

     Their hands weren't bound, and that made it easier than last time to get out of the van when they arrived. Bodie pulled off the scarf around his head as soon as he cleared the door, his eyes temporarily struggling with the sudden influx of light.

     "Good evening, gentlemen." Bodie twisted around to see MacDiarmada, seated at the small card table. A man stood next to him, someone new, someone they hadn't seen before, and Bodie felt a triclde of apprehension down his spine as he met MacDiarmada's eyes. He knew Doyle had picked up on it by the way he went still beside him.

     "Everything went well," Roderick said, still preoccupied with their haul, directing Eddie and Sean to deposit the carryalls in the corner. "In and out, not a problem, and everything we need—" He turned and saw the man at MacDiarmada's side.

     "Padraic!" A broad grin split Roderick's face and he was across the room in seconds, wrapping his arms around the new arrival. "Padraic Connelly, you lying bastard, wherever did you appear from? Bodie," he said, turning with one arm still around Connelly's shoulder, motioning him forward, "Bodie, come here, I want to meet a friend of mine—"

     Bodie was already moving forward when MacDiarmada's quiet voice cut through Roderick's enthusiasm. He froze at the sound of it. "Conor, lad. I'm afraid there's no time for that. We have a bit of a problem on our hands."

     "Problem?" Roderick's brow furrowed as he looked from MacDiarmada to Connelly. "What problem?" He followed MacDiarmada's line of vision straight to Bodie, who had gone still, and then over to Doyle, and his frown deepened. "What is this?"

     Sean and Eddie were taking note of the rising tension in the room, and they moved carefully to flank MacDiarmada, drawing their guns. Bodie shifted the eighth of an inch he needed to anchor himself. It was automatic to begin crafting possible plans of attack, considering venues of escape, adrenaline sharpening his senses.

     "Easy, lads. Mr Bodie, perhaps you would care to explain to Conor about our little dilemma?" MacDiarmada's voice was as hard as steel beneath the false civility.

     "Bodie?" Roderick frowned. "What has he got to do with this?" he demanded.

     Bodie shot a quick glance at Doyle—he was braced, arms loose at his sides, hands free. Ready for action, a deadly weapon primed and waiting for Bodie's cue. Still, without knowing what MacDiarmada knew— or thought he knew—there was always the chance a bluff would work. Never hurt to give charm a try. He spread his hands as if he were innocent, as if he had nothing to hide. "Don't know what you mean, sir."

     "Ah." MacDiarmada sighed. "You disappoint me, lad. I expected better." He got to his feet, leaning heavily on Connelly's arm. "Take their guns, Sean."

     Doyle always would be faster than Bodie at drawing his weapon, but they both had them out in seconds.

     "Don't think so, mate." Doyle put both hands on his gun and pointed it levelly at Sean, his eyes and his voice hard.

     "Have you lost your mind?" Roderick asked MacDiarmada, his voice agonised. He took a half step in Bodie's direction, faltered, and turned back to MacDiarmada again, caught up like a scrap of iron in the pull of two magnets. "For the love of God, tell me what's happened!"

     MacDiarmada nodded towards Connelly. "Padraic."

     Connelly looked at Roderick, then tilted his head in MacDiarmada's direction. "He didn't like the look of your Mr Bodie, Conor. He sent word back, asked us to look into things, see what we could dig up." He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "He's not who you think he is."

     Roderick's hand shook as he took the paper from Connelly. He began to read. Halfway through he shot a tormented glance at Bodie, his mouth twisting, Bodie set his jaw and returned his look challengingly. Roderick went back to reading, growing paler and paler, until he suddenly crumbled the paper in a tight fist. "I don't believe it." He looked from MacDiarmada to Connelly. "I don't fucking believe it."

     "What reason would there be for making this up?" Connelly asked him. "I'm sorry, Conor." He looked more embarrassed for Roderick than sad. "I put our best on this —you know I would, with you involved. I wish I could tell you there was some doubt but I'm afraid—" He glanced at MacDiarmada.

     "It's all true, lad." MacDiarmada watched Roderick steadily. "This man's an impostor."

     Roderick was still shaking his head. "It's not true." He turned to Bodie suddenly, his face savage, "Tell me this isn't true!"

     It was a desperate, futile plea for something Bodie couldn't give. He shook his head slowly and didn't lower his gun. "Sorry, mate. Can't do that."

     "How did you know?" Doyle asked MacDiarmada. His voice was cool, calm, as if there weren't five guns drawn and pointing in all directions.

     MacDiarmada turned, his sharp eyes focusing on Doyle. "I didn't. Not for certain. But I'm a suspicious old man, Mr Doyle, and I've a sensitive nose. It's what's kept me alive." He shook his head, his white mane of hair wild about his face. "Ah, well. More's the pity. The two of you could have proven very useful, if you'd been what you held yourselves out to be." He turned back to Sean and Eddie. "Kill them," he said. "Get rid of the bodies."

      Bodie drew himself up, ready to move, ready to take them all on.

     "No." Suddenly there was another gun in the mix, in Roderick's hands, pointing towards Sean and Eddie.

     "Conor!" Connelly's voice was disbelieving. Sean and Eddie were exchanging glances as well—clearly rebellion among the ranks wasn't even contemplated. Bodie shot a glance over at Doyle, who was looking at Roderick with a grudging respect. When he saw Bodie looking at him, he raised an eyebrow, shrugging one shoulder minutely. _Wait and see._

     MacDiarmada shook his head. "Lad, think about what you're doing here." He took a step in Roderick's direction, leaning heavily on his cane. "He's a traitor. You know what needs to be done. We've dealt with traitors before. Don't go soft on me now. Don't let your misguided feelings for this man—"

     "You've got no idea what I'm feeling." Roderick's hand was starting to shake, but he stared defiantly at the old man.

     "You think I don't! You think I don't know what he's made you?"

     "I'm not going to let you kill him!"

     "Conor, come to your senses, man," Connelly hissed. "Don't compromise us now, not when we're this close to victory."

     Roderick didn't move, although Bodie could see the sheen on his face as he began to sweat.

     "You fool." MacDiarmada's face twisted with scorn. "You'll defend a man who betrayed you?"

     "I can't let you kill him!"

     "So you betray me instead?"

     "Ciaran—"

     "He's made you weak." MacDiarmada's voice was scathing. "Turned you traitor."

     "Sweet Jesus, Conor." Connelly's voice was incredulous. "What's the man done to you? Let's kill him and be done with it, before he brings the heavens down on us all."

     "He hasn't made me weak!" By now, Roderick's hand was quaking so badly that Bodie doubted his aim would be accurate, even this close. If Roderick could actually shoot MacDiarmada, which was doubtful.

     "Then prove it." MacDiarmada's voice was hard and unforgiving. "Kill him now."

     "Touch Bodie and I'll kill you." Doyle stepped up. His eyes shone bright with anger. "I'll kill every last one of you bastards."

     Roderick shook his head. He turned to Bodie, a silent appeal for—something. Love. Loyalty. Something Bodie couldn't give him. There was not enough left of the man Bodie had fallen in love with years ago—and Bodie was no longer the man Roderick had loved. Doyle shifted on his feet, and Roderick's eyes darted towards him. Bodie wasn't sure what he read in Doyle's expression, but he went still suddenly, and a look passed over his face —resignation, pain, resentment—and then he slumped in defeat. "I—I can't." His voice was filled with agony.

     "Then you're of no use to me," MacDiarmada said with disgust, and almost immediately there was the hollow sound of a gunshot. Roderick stiffened and gave a quick cry, abruptly bitten off. He clutched at his chest and looked down with disbelief at the blood pouring over his fingers, then up at the gun in MacDiarmada's hand, before he fell heavily to the ground.

     Bodie dropped and rolled. Doyle did the same, moving in the opposite direction. There wasn't much to hide behind in the vacant warehouse, but that worked to their advantage as well, since it left Connelly, Sean, and Eddie little cover. Sean and Eddie pulled MacDiarmada to the floor between them, protected him with their bodies. Connelly attacked fearlessly, darting from pillar to pillar, hiding behind the skeletons of boxes long past their usefulness. He was a good shot, bullets grazing the wall close to Bodie's head, splintering the wood and sending shards flying.

     Connelly swung around a pillar, firing round after round into the group of boxes where Doyle was hiding. Bodie heard a muffled grunt of pain and yelled, "Doyle? Doyle, you okay?" He got no answer. "Doyle?" he repeated frantically.

     "I'm fine," he heard with relief. "Just a nick. But I'm getting right tired of this bastard." Doyle's voice seemed to have moved, seemed to be coming from a different place altogether now, and suddenly Bodie saw him rolling into clear view, his momentum landing him in the centre of the warehouse floor, where he propped himself on his arms, aimed his gun, and fired. Connelly, caught unshielded between one place of cover and the next, fired back, his shots ricocheting off the concrete, too close to Doyle for Bodie's comfort. The goddamned bastard didn't even flinch though, eyes like steel as he fired round after round, oblivious to the bullets bouncing off the floor around him, until Connelly finally staggered, bullets in his arm, his leg, and now his chest, and fell face forward to the ground.

     Doyle rolled again, this time in Bodie's direction, and Bodie shifted to give him room and covered him as he reloaded. Sean had taken point now that Connelly was dead, but he was a lot less cocky than Connelly, although he was a good shot.

     "Where's MacDiarmada?" Doyle asked, leaning his head back against the wall, holding his gun up between his hands.

     "Eddie's got him under the table." Bodie swung around the pillar to fire a few more shots. He nodded at Doyle's gun, then at Sean. "Can you take him?"

     Doyle smiled, the savage smile that meant his blood was up. "I can take him. You just be ready for Eddie." He gave Bodie a quick nod and then he was moving again, darting across the room, getting off a round for every other step he took. Sean tried to follow him with his gun, but his shots lagged just a second or two behind. Doyle tossed himself back into the sea of boxes and then came up on his knees. The moment Sean emerged Doyle was firing again, hitting Sean in the hand and knocking the gun away, and then putting another bullet in his chest.

     Eddie was out from under the table before Sean hit the ground. Anger and grief contorted his face, tears running down his cheeks, suddenly making him human in a way he hadn't been before, and he fired without caution, almost without aiming, a volley of bullets that ended when Bodie shot him right between his eyes.

     Doyle reached MacDiarmada first, lifting the table and flinging it aside. MacDiarmada lifted his gun and aimed, but Doyle was faster than the fragile old man, his booted foot sending it spinning across the floor. Bodie came up behind MacDiarmada, dragging him to his feet, but he sagged in his hands, and Bodie realised he'd been hit, once in the shoulder and again in the upper leg.

     MacDiarmada winced as they tried to move him towards the bed. "Destroy you—" he whispered, his head lolling back against Bodies shoulder as he lost consciousness.

     "Oh, for Christ's—" Doyle bit off the curse as they got him to the bed and eased him down.

     Doyle looked at him. "One of us will have to go call this in."

     "You stay with him. I'll—"

     Bodie was cut off by the sound of the door to the warehouse bouncing back on its hinges. They both swivelled, guns raised, stopping short at the sight of the uniform.

     "Who the hell are you?" the policeman asked, keeping his truncheon high as they lowered their weapons. He took in the scene before him. "And what the hell is going on here?"

     "CI5," Doyle said. "Get on that radio of yours and call in some backup. And tell someone to get on the phone to George Cowley."

     "Let me see some identification."

     Bodie grinned. "Sorry, mate. It's in me other trousers. Now get on that goddamn radio — "

     "Bodie!"

     He turned. Doyle was crouching over Roderick. "He's alive."

     Bodie felt his jaw tighten. "Get on the radio," he ordered the policeman again, and then he turned to Roderick. Doyle moved away as he got close

     Bodie knelt down next to him. Roderick was still breathing, but his breath was shallow, and the blood flowed freely from the wound in his chest. His face was ashen.

     "Bodie?"

     "Yeah." Bodie put his gun back in his holster and pulled off his jacket, tucking it beneath Roderick's head. "Don't move. We'll call for an ambulance."

     "And keep me alive for an execution?" Roderick smiled gently. "Thank you, no." He looked over to where Doyle was tucking MacDiarmada's coat around him. "Is he dead?" he asked quietly, his voice filled with pain.

      Doyle looked at Roderick. Bodie could see a reluctant sympathy in his face as he replied. "No. But he's badly hurt. And he's old and ill."

     Bodie turned back to Roderick. He was watching Bodie, eyes wet, pain tightening his features.

     "It was a set-up, then?" he asked, his hand finding its way to Bodie's arm. His voice was losing some of its evenness. "It was all a lie, from the beginning?"

     "Yes."

     "After Africa?"

     "I joined the Army. Went into the Paras."

     Roderick took a deep breath. It rattled in his chest. "SAS?"

     Bodie nodded slowly. "Served two years in Belfast."

     "That close —" Roderick whispered. He coughed suddenly, violently, and blood flecked his lips. "You never tried to contact me."

     Bodie shook his head. "I never tried."

     "I trusted you."

     "You were supposed to," he said, not ungently.

     "I loved you."

     Doyle suddenly raised his head, and Bodie could feel his eyes on them, piercing and fierce.

     "Sir," the policeman called to Doyle. He had raised Dispatch, and Bodie heard Cowley come on the line. "He wants one of you, sir," the policeman said, holding out the radio.

     "I’ll take it," Doyle said, looking away from him and Roderick. He passed MacDiarmada's gun to the policeman and took the radio, gesturing towards the unconscious MacDiarmada. "Keep your eyes on him."

     "He's unconscious, sir," said the policeman, sounding confused.

     "I don't care if he's dead—don't take your eye off of him. Sir?" Doyle spoke into the radio and moved off to give their report.

     "I should never have let you go." Roderick had a small, sad smile on his face.

     "You left me," Bodie corrected him.

     "So is that what this was then?" Roderick whispered. "Your revenge?"

     "No." Bodie felt for his pulse—it was weakening. "That was all over long ago. Told you that, didn't I? Was just my job." He could see Roderick flinch. "Don't talk—save your strength."

     Roderick smiled wanly. "For what?"

     "Come on, Conor—"

     "Was all of it a lie, Bodie? All of it?" Bodie hesitated, and Roderick reached out, grasping him with one bloody hand. "Was it, Bodie?"

     He had no interest in being cruel, not now. "Maybe not all of it," he whispered.

     Roderick smiled, and then suddenly he stiffened, his grip on Bodie's growing tight enough to be painful. He shook with tremors, his eyes wide and staring as he gasped violently for air, and then he seemed to slowly deflate, going still.

     "Conor. Conor!"

     "Sir!" Bodie turned. It was the policeman. He hadn't listened to Doyle, the bloody idiot, had apparently left MacDiarmada to begin searching Sean and Eddie's bodies. Now MacDiarmada was rising up from where he'd been slumped on the bed, like a demon rising from the ashes— hair wild, eyes bright and mad, his twisted limbs filled with an unholy strength, power enough to lift him to his feet, where he stood juddering like a tree in a fierce wind. Somehow he had a gun again — who knew from where— and the gun was pointed directly at Bodie.

     "Destroy you," he hissed, aiming the gun at Bodie. "Destroy you like you destroyed him, with your filthy, obscene perversions."

     Bodie fell back a step, anticipating the impact of the bullet. He could never pull his gun in time.

     The explosion jarred them both. MacDiarmada stumbled as if he'd been struck with a hammer, dropping the gun as he staggered. Bodie turned to Doyle to see his gun pointed at MacDiarmada, his face fierce and remorseless.

     MacDiarmada clutched a hand to his chest but the blood seeped through his fingers, just as it had with Roderick. He looked at Doyle, and the madness drained from his face, replaced by a faint smile. "Mr Doyle. I knew you would be the one to cause me trouble," he said. He stumbled again, and this time he fell, hitting the edge of the bed and toppling it as he landed.

     Almost at the same time there was a sudden commotion at the door to the warehouse. Biggs and Lewis came through, their guns drawn. Seemed the cavalry had arrived. Doyle whirled, re-aiming, and they stopped dead in their tracks, holding up their hands. "Oi, Doyle— stand down already." Doyle nodded and tucked away his gun.

     Biggs crouched next to MacDiarmada. "He's dead," he reported. He frowned at Doyle. "Bloody hell, Doyle, you know Cowley specifically said he wanted MacDiarmada alive."

     "Well, the old man's going to be disappointed then, isn't he?" Bodie said, staring at Doyle.

     Doyle looked back at him. "Roderick?"

     "Dead." He couldn't decipher the look that crossed Doyle's face.

     "Doyle?" The radio, still in Doyle's hand, came to life. "Four-five, this is Alpha One. Respond!"

     "This is four-five. Roderick and MacDiarmada are dead."

     "Dead? _Dead_? Doyle, I specifically gave orders—"

     Doyle passed the radio wordlessly to Biggs and stormed out of the warehouse.

 

"I SPECIFICALLY GAVE ORDERS THAT MacDiarmada was to be taken alive!" Cowley raged.

     Cowley was covering this ground for the third time. He'd given Doyle a dressing down when he arrived at the scene, and he'd continued in the car, all the way back to headquarters. Now they were in his office, and Cowley was still going strong. For his part, Doyle wasn't offering much of a defence—in fact, had offered no defence—and seemed mostly to be waiting for Cowley to run himself down.

     "Sir, it's not like we would have got much from MacDiarmada anyway," Bodie protested. "He was a tough old bird—you know that."

     "He would have been a trophy, Bodie, Even you should be able to see that. The man had political value, not to mention strategic uses! It would've been demoralizing— his trial, his conviction. Now he's just another bloody martyr for the cause."

     "Yeah, well, maybe politics weren't the first thing on our minds when we had a madman waving a gun around!"

     "Ach—don't give me that, Bodie. You weren't thinking at all, neither of you. And you, Doyle—get out of my sight. Hide yourself in records or someplace, any place I won't have to look at you for a while."

     "Yes, sir." Doyle was on his feet and out of the office.

     "He saved my life, sir. MacDiarmada had a gun on me."

     "If you're smart, Bodie, you'll keep your partner out of my way. Dismissed."

     "Sir-"

     "I said dismissed, Bodie!"

     He stood, hovering over Cowley's desk, feeling impotent with the force of the anger sweeping through him. Cowley took off his glasses and stared, daring him to say or do something that would cost him a suspension, and finally Bodie turned on his heel and left.

     Doyle was lingering in the hallway, leaning back against the wall, staring down at his boots. He looked up at Bodie. They stared at each other silently.

     Doyle looked away from him. Looked back. "D'you want a drink?" he asked finally.

     Bodie nodded.

     "Let's go then."

     Doyle drove. Tension filled the car, strung tight and humming like a strummed chord every time either of them moved. At some point Doyle switched on the radio, trying to fill up the space with the sound of something other than their breathing, but it didn't help much—they were too aware of each other, of every movement. Finally, Bodie turned and stared out the window, watching the buildings pass without seeing them.

     When Doyle pulled over and parked the car, Bodie realised with surprise that they were in front of Doyle's flat.

     "Aren't we getting a drink then?" he asked.

     Doyle set the brake and turned off the engine. "Thought we'd have a drink here. More private." His thumb stroked restlessly over the steering wheel. He wouldn't look at Bodie, staring instead out the side window. "Thought maybe we could talk."

      Bodie's gut roiled. So this was it then. He took a deep breath.

     "If you'd rather—" Doyle shook his head. "It's late. I'll take you home."

     "No. No, you're right. We should—we should talk. Get things settled."

     "Settled," Doyle repeated. Bodie struggled to read the note in his voice. "Right." Doyle opened his door and climbed out, then started up the stairs to the entrance of the building, leaving Bodie to follow him. They went inside and Bodie shut the door behind them, setting the locks.

     He found Doyle in the kitchen, already plugging in the kettle. "I thought you promised me a proper drink," he said with false lightness. He'd need a drink to get through this discussion.

     Doyle looked at him and then walked past him into the lounge, pulling out a bottle from the cabinet under the window. Bodie recognised it—the same bottle they'd fought over only—Christ, was it only a week and a half ago? Doyle poured two stiff drinks and passed one to Bodie before he took a long swallow from the glass in his own hand.

     "Sit down," Doyle said, gesturing towards his settee. "You hungry? We could get that takeaway you were talking about the other night."

     The night they'd fought. The night he'd given Doyle the black eye that had only recently faded. "No, I'm—" He'd choke on anything but whisky. "No, I'm fine. So what did you want to talk about?"

     Doyle swirled the whisky in his glass and opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself. He walked back over to the window, pulling aside the curtains to look down on the street. "We can't go on the way we've been," he said, after another minute or so of silence. Bodie bit the inside of his cheek, stifling the inclination to interject. "We keep on like this and we'll get us both killed. We need to fix it or—" He didn't finish the sentence.

     They sat without speaking for another moment, the silence eating away at what was left of Bodie's nerves. He finished his drink, thought of asking for another and decided against it. He'd need his head on straight for this.

     "Doyle—"

     "Bodie—"

     They both hesitated, started to say "you first" and fell silent again. A small, crooked smile flirted with Doyle's mouth, and Bodie's heart lurched. "You first."

     "Conor Roderick."

     He thought of Roderick—broken and bloody—being lifted into the back of the wagon. "Doyle, it wasn't—"He struggled with the words. "It wasn't what you're thinking," he finished lamely.

     "Then why don't you tell me what it was, Bodie. Seems to me you got in pretty deep with him. I was there. I saw the two of you together."

      Bodie opened his mouth to protest and then stopped himself. "Okay, yeah. Look, in the beginning—in the beginning I was just angry, all right?"

     "Angry?"

     "Yeah, angry at the job and at—" His jaw tightened, holding in the words. "Just angry, all right? And then he surprised me, came out of nowhere with these ridiculous declarations of undying love, and I reckoned, what the hell? Couldn't hurt, could it? Reckoned, just another way to get to him, to get close."

     "Didn't look that simple. Didn't look like that at the warehouse," Doyle challenged.

     "The man was dying, wasn't he? What harm in a few kind words then?" Bodie shook his head with exasperation. "Look, you can't really believe that I was planning to run off with him to play terrorist with the IRA, so let's stop playing games. It's not Roderick that's bothering you, Ray. It's me."

     Doyle moved restlessly on the edge of the chair. "Bodie, I don't think—"

     "No. Look, I know I've messed things up between us. Messed things up right and proper, and not just with the whole thing with Roderick. I know that. And I know we need to figure this all out." He took a deep breath. "Can't go on the way we have been, I know. And we can't go back—know that, too. I just—well, I told you what I wanted. And you—" He broke off, the shame not so far into the past that it didn't threaten to swallow him again. "Well, you know what you said."

     "Ah, Bodie—"

     "Thing is, mate," he said, looking straight into Doyle's eyes, "lately you got me twisted all around. I know I've pushed when I shouldn't have—broke every one of your bloody rules—but sometimes—"Doyle's eyes were dark. "Well, lately you've been doing some pushing of your own, sunshine, and I don't know what it means."

     Doyle shifted uneasily, clearly uncomfortable, and Bodie felt his resentment flare again. So it was still like that, was it? Doyle running hot and cold, and Bodie back on the outside, kept at arms' length. He took another deep breath, hoping it didn't snag on the pain knotting up in his chest, and stood. Fine then. He'd choke down this bitter pill if he had to, because the alternative, going on without Doyle, was unthinkable. "Look, thing is, I bollixed things up good. I know that and I'm willing to put them right. So just tell me what it is I need to do and I'll fix it. No more—" he'd keep his voice steady if it killed him, "no more pushing. Just partners, you and me. Me keeping my hands to myself and all, just like we agreed."

     "Is that what you want?" There wasn't a ripple in Doyle's face to let him know what he was thinking.

     "Bloody hell, Ray!" And if he wouldn't let Doyle see his pain he could at least let him see the anger tearing through his gut. "This isn't about what I want any more. You turned me down right clear on that one. It's about what we can salvage, if you'll leave us that much. If you'll leave us anything."

     Doyle set his jaw mutinously. "What, it's all up to me, is it? That's typical, you sorry bastard." He turned away from Bodie, but when he began to speak, his voice was quiet but indignant. "You haven't got any idea what this has been like for me, do you?"

     "Well, excuse me, Doyle, I'm so sorry I bothered you with all of my nasty little perversions—"

     "That's not what I meant—"

     "That's what you said! No." Bodie pointed a finger at him when he tried to speak again. "No, you listen to me. I told you what I wanted and you fucking threw my words right back in my face, Doyle. And not mincing any words while you were about it either!"

     "I didn't want to be queer!" Doyle shouted. "Is that so hard to understand, Bodie? And don't give me some bloody shite about not caring. It's not like you go around wearing a sign or anything—you kept it a secret, too!"

     "Not from you." He was angry, breathing hard through his nose and mouth. "I never kept it a secret from you."

     "What?" Doyle chuffed out a disbelieving laugh. "You never—"

     "You think I treat everyone like I treat you? You ever see me touch Murph the way I do you? Or Jax? Christ, I can't keep my hands off you. Couldn't even before—Jesus, Ray, if you couldn't see how I felt—"

     "That's wanting—that's not any kind of feeling! You never said anything about what you felt," Doyle yelled, furious.

     "Well," Bodie faltered, momentarily nonplussed. "Well, I didn't think I had to—you were there, weren't you? Must've seen how I felt."

     "Oh, now I'm a mind reader, am I?" Doyle threw up his hands. "I still don't know what you want, other than me arse! I still don't know what you feel!"

     Bodie stared at him, incredulous. "You think I would risk this," he made a motion with his hand, back and forth between them, "risk our partnership —just because I wanted to fuck you?"

     "How would I know? You fuck anything that moves, Bodie. How was I supposed to know I'm anything different?"

     "Well, you might have thought better of me," Bodie said, feeling gutted. "You might have given me the benefit of the doubt." His shoulders sagged, defeated. "Ah hell, Doyle—what's it matter anyway whether you knew. You don't want it."

     Doyle looked at him defiantly. "Maybe I've changed my mind."

     Bodie saw red. "And maybe you'll change it back again, after you get fucked." He ignored Doyle's flinch. "I'm getting bloody sick of this—this yes and no and maybe, fire and ice—"

     "Shut up, Bodie—" Doyle hissed.

     "Listen, you little prick—"

     "No." Doyle held up his hand. "No. My turn to talk now. You think this is all about you? Poor little Bodie, who got rejected? You never once thought about what it might mean to me, did you?"

     "I think you were clear enough on that score. Didn't leave much to the imagination."

     "I said shut up." Doyle got up to pace the short length of the lounge. He rubbed his hands together restlessly and then shoved them down into his back pockets. Bodie watched him, still angry.

     Doyle finally stopped his pacing and turned to Bodie. "Look, I told you once I was a right tearaway when I was kid, right?"

     Bodie nodded reluctantly. He wasn't particularly interested in Doyle's life history at the moment.

     "Yeah, well I got myself into more than my share of trouble. All kinds of trouble," he said, turning to look meaningfully at Bodie. "Leastways," he started pacing again, "trouble as far as my family was concerned. Wrong crowd, wrong clubs. Wrong mates," he added, the words carrying a certain emphasis.

     Bodie stared at him, not comprehending. He shook his head. "I don't understand."

     Doyle stopped pacing. "I'm saying I was queer, Bodie."

     Bodie flinched at the word.

     "I'm saying you weren't the first bloke to fuck me. You weren't even the tenth. Or—even more than that," Doyle said, flushing. "And I saw what happened to queers. I heard the stories, saw the queens living on the dole because they couldn't get a job." He looked hard at Bodie, full on. "So when I decided to join the Met, I told myself I wasn't going to be queer any more. I trained myself not to look, not to notice, not to even think about it. Queers never get anywhere, I told myself. That wasn't going to happen to me. I wasn't going to be queer any more."

     Bodie shook his head. "But you said—"

    "Told myself it didn't matter," Doyle continued, ignoring him, talking over him. "Told myself I liked women well enough, so it wasn't like I'd have to go without." He gave a cheerless laugh. "And I was fine, I was—maybe not ecstatic or anything but I was fine. Happy enough, anyway."

     Bodie ran a hand over his eyes. "Doyle, what's the point of this little story?"

     "The point is, then you came along. And you weren't like anyone else, ever. I knew the minute I met you I was in trouble, and I knew it would be even harder not to be tempted, but— Still thought I was safe, you know?" And now Doyle was looking at him with a plea in his eyes. "Thought you, with your Mister Macho Man, and all those goddamn birds and all— I thought he can't possibly want— You couldn't be a poof, I told myself. Not you. I'm safe, I told myself, because he'd never—you'd never—Bodie'd knock you down first, I told myself. But then you—"

     He stopped. Took a deep, shuddering, breath. "You're right—I did shut you down hard and fast that night. But, Jesus, Bodie—you scared the hell out of me."

     "Doyle," Bodie stared at him in disbelief, "you can't be telling me — You told me you weren't a 'fucking pervert'! That's not what you might call ambiguous. You trying to tell me now you didn't mean any of that?"

     "No. I mean, yes, what I'm trying to say is—" Doyle sighed. "Jesus, I didn't mean to—"

     "So rather than risk being called a queer you were happy to put me through the wringer and back?" He couldn't think for the thrumming of the blood in his veins. He was angrier than he'd ever been in his life. "You selfish bastard." He pushed Doyle aside and headed for the door.

     "No." Doyle's hands were like claws on his arms, pulling him back. "Oh, no you don't, mate. You've been putting this all on me and now you're going to stay and listen to what I've got to say, you bastard."

     "What? Some impassioned speech about how you're cured? How you don't need it? Don't want me? I've heard it, Doyle. I got the message. Don't need to hear it again."

     "Christ, would you just—would you just stop being such a bloody bastard, Bodie? Would you just slow down for once and just talk to me?"

     "Fuck you, Doyle." He wrenched his arm away. "Better just to end this," he said, his throat so tight with anger and grief that it hurt. He started towards the door again. "I'll ask Cowley for a transfer in the morning."

     "You bloody idiot—" Doyle grabbed his arm again, used his other hand to pull his head down. "You bloody, fucking idiot," and Doyle was kissing him, mouth hard and urgent.

     He tried to pull away. He couldn't do this, this running hot and cold and his heart getting stomped all the while. He struggled against the hold Doyle had on his arm, tried to pull his head back, but Doyle held on tight, dancing his tongue over the crease of Bodies mouth. Doyle finally pulled away and whispered, "I'm not running any more, Bodie—-now you're going to start?" He bit at Bodies lips. "Let me in, you bastard, just let me in." He bit again, hard, and Bodie opened his mouth on a gasp. Doyle filled it with his tongue.

     Doyle wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling Bodie up tight against him. Bodie found his hands in Doyle's hair, his fingers twisting through the dark curls, holding on as he was kissed again and again.

     "You got no idea how dangerous you are, do you, Bodie?" Doyle whispered against his mouth. "No idea at all what it's like to have all of that suddenly focused on you. I'm sorry—I panicked. And when you wouldn't stop pushing I got mad, pushed back hard as I could."

     "Hard to believe, Doyle," he said, his heart pounding. He still wasn't feeling forgiving. "Nothing scares you."

     "Nothing but you, I guess. I am sorry, Bodie."

     He closed his eyes. "So where does this leave us? You don't want to be queer."

     Doyle sighed and released him, pulling him over to sit on the settee. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper- "Loving you scares the hell out of me, Bodie. Guess the only thing scares me more is losing you." Doyle met his eyes, his own fierce. "I hated the sight of you with Roderick. I hated watching you kiss him and laugh with him and flirt with him. I hated the way he had the right to touch you—anywhere — and I didn't. Bastard knew what you tasted like, and what you liked in bed—" Bodie shivered,"—and I hated him, because he wasn't supposed to know that. Wasn't _his_. God, most of all, I hated listening to the two of you together. I wanted to kill him."

     "Was never a contest between the two of you, Doyle."

     "Didn't matter. Didn't matter whether it was real or not. He had you and I didn't."

     Bodie reached out and touched Doyle's cheek, brushing his thumb over his mouth. "He never had me," he whispered, tracing the full lips. "And you always did."

     Doyle closed his eyes. "Scared, wasn't I, of what loving you would make me."

     "And now?"

     "Now I'm afraid of what I'll become if I don't." Doyle leaned forward and kissed him again.

     They'd kissed before—Christ, they'd _fucked_ — but this felt as tentative as a first time. Doyle's mouth was closed, barely touching his, and he was holding his breath, same as Bodie. Then something caught fire, exploded between them, and Doyle's mouth was suddenly open and needy under his, and Bodie's hand tightened in his hair, dragging him forward.

     Doyle went. He slid off the settee and down onto his knees between Bodie's thighs, twisting his hands in Bodie's shirt and yanking him close. The kiss was Doyle's—he was in control of it from beginning to end, and when Bodie surfaced he drew in a ragged breath and whispered fiercely, "Are you sure, Ray? Don't think I could stand more of what we've been through."

     "Yes." Doyle fed him the words against his mouth. "God, yes—" and then he was kissing Bodie again, savaging his mouth. When he pulled away and sat back on his heels, eyes flashing, lips swollen and dark, Bodie's heart leapt in his chest; it was everything he'd ever dreamt about, Doyle in his arms, flushed and willing, aroused, eyes wild and hot with fever, and all of it directed right at him.

     "What do you want?" he whispered, unable to recognise the deep, rough growl as his own voice.

     "You." Doyle lifted his chin and dared Bodie to challenge him. "Us."

     "Ray—"

     "I want it, Bodie. I want it. I know I put you through hell, and I can't say it still doesn't terrify me, someone finding out, but I want it." Doyle finished on a whisper and then he was rising to his feet, sliding onto the settee and straddling Bodie's legs. Bodie wrapped his arms around him and Doyle shivered under his touch, moving into the circle of Bodie's arms. Bodie buried his face in the riot of hair that covered Doyle's head. For a moment it was enough simply to hold him.

     Doyle leaned back a bit, turning his head to kiss him. This time the kiss was slow and heated, Doyle's tongue licking into his mouth. Bodie tried to breathe around it, and reached up to pluck at the buttons on Doyle's shirt, unfastening them one by one. He got his hands inside, running his fingers over warm skin. Muscles twitched under his fingers as he skimmed them over Doyle's chest, and when he found one hard nipple and rolled it between his fingers, he felt Doyle's breath catch against his mouth. He did it again, and this time Doyle moaned, long and deep.

     "Like that, do you, sunshine?" he whispered.

     "Fuck, you know I do, Bodie." Doyle groaned, and Bodie cut off the sound, diving back into his mouth. He pulled Doyle's shirt out of his trousers and pushed it off his shoulders, then wrestled his own shirt up and off. Doyle's hands were on him almost before it hit the floor, hands and mouth, and Bodie sucked in a breath as Doyle set his teeth against his collarbone, biting hard enough to create a sensation just this side of pain. It shot through him, lacing around his prick. Had he really thought he could ever be just this man's partner?

     "God." He let his fingers tangle in the hair on Doyle's chest. "The dreams I used to have about you. Drove me crazy." He leaned in and bit the side of Doyle's neck, feeling the groan against his lips. "You drive me crazy."

     Doyle shifted and pushed him down against the settee, climbing on top of him. He brought their mouths together again, again and again, and it was everything Bodie had craved, Doyle in his arms, ardent and needy. He wrapped his hands in the thick coils of hair and gave himself over to every kiss, every brush of Doyle's fingers against his skin, while Doyle fitted himself between Bodie's thighs, grinding his hips against him.

     He ran his hands over Doyle, who curled over him in a smooth arch of muscle and need, and shivered as Doyle fed low, helpless moans into his mouth. He rolled Doyle underneath him; Doyle's legs came up around him and they rocked against each other, groaning softly with each thrust. Bodie could feel Doyle's prick, hard against his leg, and he shifted to press a thigh firmly down against him. Doyle caught his breath and smothered a curse against Bodie's throat, and then shoved his hands between them, pulling at the fastenings on Bodie's trousers. "Get these off," he demanded, sliding out from under Bodie and standing, stripping off the last of his clothing.

     He was beautiful, lean and hard, not a spare ounce of flesh on him. The colour was high in his face, staining his cheekbones, and his eyes were liquid and filled with fire. There was no mercy in the look he gave Bodie—he would take everything Bodie offered, and demand whatever Bodie had left to give.

      He shivered and fumbled with his trousers. Doyle brushed his hands away and yanked down the zip, loosening them enough to drag them over his hips to his knees, where they trapped his legs together. Then he climbed on top of Bodie again and straddled him, leaning over to kiss him, and as he bent over him Bodie's senses filled with the scent and taste and touch of him, fresh sweat and whisky, and fevered hands. He was dizzy with it.

     "Ray—" He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Doyle stole it, again and again, in kisses long and slow and soft, and when he finally released his mouth Bodie gasped for air, only to let it loose again in a strangled cry when Doyle bit down on a nipple, teasing it roughly with his teeth. He pushed against Doyle's weight, trying to press his prick into Doyle's belly, but Doyle grabbed his hips and held him down, teasing him.

     It was quite possible, he thought, with the distant part of his mind still functioning, that Doyle was going to drive him insane. He was certainly taking his time —throat, collarbone, nipples. Belly. Bodie shivered under the feel of his wet mouth, touching, tasting, the muscles rippling under his skin. Lower. Lower.

     And then suddenly that mouth was gone as Doyle sat up abruptly, his arse resting on Bodie's thighs. He was breathing as hard as Bodie was, quick and shallow through his mouth, and he looked at Bodie through heavy-lidded eyes, cat-like, like he was ready to pounce. Except that when he lifted his hand to touch Bodie again, it was trembling.

     "Ray?"

     "Don't know how I ever could've told myself I could live without this." Doyle put his hand on Bodie's hip, ran it gently across his belly, until, with an unsteady breath, he closed it around Bodie's prick. Bodie drew in a sharp breath and held himself still as Doyle let his fingers explore, his grip alternately hard and soft, teasing and urgent. With Doyle sitting on him he couldn't move, couldn't push up into his hand, and finally he wrapped his own fingers around Doyle's, trying to urge him into a harder, faster rhythm.

     "Hey." Doyle pushed his hand away. "Enough of that, now."

     "Ray—"

     Doyle flashed him a quick grin. "Learn a bit of patience, mate."

     "Wait'll the shoe's on the other foot," he muttered, but he did as he was told, let his arms fall to the side, one hand curling around Doyle's thigh, the other twisting hold of the cushion.

     Doyle went back to touching him, playing with his balls and stroking him, his eyes darkening as Bodie went increasingly mad, breathing raggedly, the sweat breaking out on both of them. The room filled with the smell of them, sex and sweat. If want had a smell, Bodie fancied he could feel it filling his lungs, permeating his blood. "Ray," he finally begged.

      Doyle shifted then, his hands urging Bodie's thighs to open, spread wide. Bodie obeyed, lifting one leg over the back of the settee, planting the other firmly on the ground, both his hands now clenched tight into the cushions, his head falling back as he panted. He groaned when he felt the fleeting touch of Doyle's breath against his prick, the first tentative caress of his tongue, and then he cried out as Doyle took him into his mouth.

     Wet, velvety heat all around him, sucking him, drawing him in deeper and deeper. Bodie trembled, the muscles in his thighs quivering as he tried to hold still, tried just to feel the sensation of Doyle's mouth around him. Doyle had wrapped one hand around him, his lips touching his fist every time his mouth slid down, and the brush of his hair teased Bodie, soft and springy against the inside of his thigh.

     Slowly the pressure of Doyle's mouth increased. He started sucking Bodie hard and fast, and suddenly Bodie was free to move, to fuck Doyle's mouth, and he wrenched his hands free to fist them in Doyle's hair, grunting as he thrust deep, strung out and crazy with passion.

     "Ray," he gasped from between clenched teeth, wanting to warn him, and Doyle slid his mouth off but kept working his fist, stroking and stroking, and Bodie cried out mindlessly as he came, ejaculate spurting over Doyle's fingers, striping his belly and chest.

     Bodie collapsed against the cushions, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He could feel Doyle trying to do the same, trembling between his legs, his breath hot and moist as he gasped for air against Bodie's thighs. Then Doyle lifted himself up, climbing over him, straddling him again as he kissed him, ravaging his mouth. Free at last to hold him, Bodie wrapped his arms around him, hands slipping over hard muscles covered in damp skin. He felt the stickiness on Doyle's chest where the hair was now matted, and further down, the hard prick between his legs.

     Doyle's breath stuttered against his mouth as Bodie gripped him, wrapped one strong hand around him and stroked. "Bodie," he moaned, and then he sat up again, letting Bodie see him, flushed and needy. Unashamed. He looked down into Bodie's eyes and then he leaned back, flaunting himself; Bodie's mouth went dry at the vision he presented, aroused and debauched, hard, and covered with Bodie's come.

     "Touch yourself," Bodie whispered hoarsely, and Doyle's eyes darkened. He pushed Bodie's hand away and replaced it with his own, stroking his prick. "Harder."

     Doyle's head fell back as he fucked his own hand. Bodie could feel him tremble as he got closer, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he moved. Bodie drank him in, flushed and quaking, and he relished the mewling cry Doyle made when Bodie fingered his nipples, plucking at them.

     "Bodie," Doyle whispered, and then he was leaning over him, one hand twisted in the cushion next to Bodie's head and the other working his prick until he came. Bodie felt the warm spattering of his come; he pulled Doyle's head down and licked his lips as Doyle released cry after cry into his mouth, and then caught him as he fell.

     They were a mess, covered in sweat and saliva and come. After a moment, Bodie rolled onto his side and Doyle followed him bonelessly, wrapping one loose arm around him. He stirred, tilted his head to the side and they kissed, slow, slow and easy, deep, sweet drugging kisses.

     Doyle finally dragged his mouth away, gasping for air, and levered himself up onto his hands, staring down at Bodie. "You're mine, you bastard, you got that?" he demanded savagely. "You're mine."

      And Bodie had to grin at that—as if he'd been the reluctant one. Maybe Doyle thought he was laughing at him, because his face darkened with anger and a trace of uncertainty, and Bodie's smiled faded as he schooled himself and nodded slowly. "Yeah. I got it." He ran his hands down Doyle's chest and anchored them on the lean hips that felt warm and heavy between his legs. "Goes both ways, though, Ray," he warned softly, searching out his eyes.

     "Yeah?" They were fierce, filled with love and warmth. "Done and done, then."

     He nodded. "Done and done."

      

    

    

 

    

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine _Never Far Apart #2_ , edited by Justacat. Beta'd by PFL (msmoat) and Justacat.
> 
> ENORMOUS THANKS TO TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVE CHOSEN TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS BUT WITHOUT WHOSE HARD WORK IN CONVERTING THIS FROM PAPER TO ELECTRONIC FORMAT, THIS STORY WOULD NEVER HAD MADE IT INTO AO3.


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